\ 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 

JAMBS  J.  MC  BRIDE 


u 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


By    J.    J.    BELL 

Johnny  Pryde 

12010,  cloth       net  i.oo 

Around  a  half-grown  Scottish  grocer's  boy,  Mr.  Bell 
has  woven  a  fund  of  highly  humorous  incidents,  keep- 
ing Johnny  pretty  busy  getting  in  and  out  of  hot 
water  through  seventeen  chuckling  chapters. 

Cupid  in  Oilskins 

i2rao,  cloth        net  i.oo 

"A  story  throbbing  with  the  spirit  of  wartime,  yet 
one  in  which  the  reader  is  spared  the  horrors  of  the 
battlefield.  As  in  his  acknowledged  habit,  Mr.  Bell 
invests  his  characters  with  the  truly  human  spirit  and 
the  saving  grace  of  humor." — N.  Y.  Times. 

Wee  Macgreegor  Enlists 

I2mo,  cloth        net  i.oo 

"  Bell's  humor  is  perhaps  the  most  delicious  thing  in 
all  the  British  Isles — a  rare  and  rollicking  book  is  this 
one.  But,  oh,  its  the  wee  Mac  and  Private  Thomp- 
son and  Christina  that  belongs  in  the  Caledonia  Hall 
of  Fame." — N.  Y.  Evening  Sun. 

The  Misadventures  of  Joseph 

Illustrated net  i.oo 

The  Indiscretions  of  Maister  Redhorn 

Illustrated,  16010,  cloth net      .50 

Wullie  McWattie's  Master 

Illustrated,  i6mo,  cloth net      .50 

Oh!  Christina! 

Illustrated,  i6mo,  cloth net      .50 

Whither  Thou  Goest 

A  Romance  of  the  Clyde.     121110,  cloth    net      .50 


"As  Clark  says,  it's  rvoryl.o.ly  V  duty  I.,  k.vj.  fit  the  1100.  What 
would  happen  to  the  business  if  I  was  removed  to  the  hospital 
severely  injured?"  (See  Page  43) 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


BY 

J.   J.    BELL 

AUTHOR  OF 

'Cupid  in  Oilskins,"   "Wee  MacGreegor 
Enlists,"  "Oh  Christina,"  etc. 


NEW  YORK  CHICAGO  TORONTO 

Fleming  H.  Revell  Company 

LONDON          AND          EDINBURGH 


Copyright,   1918,  by 
FLEMING  H.  REVELL  COMPANY 


New  York:  158  Fifth  Avenue 
Chicago  :  1 7  North  Wabash  Ave. 
Toronto  :  25  Richmond  Street,  W. 
London :  2 1  Paternoster  Square 
Edinburgh :  100  Princes  Street 


TO 


712971 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.    HE    INTRODUCES   HIMSELF  .         9 

II.    QUEER    CUSTOMERS  .  .  .18 

III.  THAT    GORGONZOLA   .  .  .28 

IV.  OBLIGING   A    GIRL      .  .  .37 
V.    THE   NEW   LAID            .  .  .48 

VI.    JESSIE        .            .            .  .  ,58 

VII.    THE    LOVE-SICK   PETER  KNOX    .       67 

VIII.    REWARDS    OF    INDUSTRY    .  .       77 

IX.    A    PIECE    OF    SILVER  .  .       86 

X.    MISS   MOUBRAY            .  .  .96 

XI.    DOLLY   TOSH      .            .  .  .105 

XII.    DOLLY   AGAIN    .            .  .  .114 

7 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTEB  PAGE 

XIII.  THE    PROFITEER  .  .  .123 

XIV.  JESSIE    ONCE    MORE  .  .  .134 
XV.    HE    DISCOURSES    ON    MARRIAGE    145 

XVI.    A    GOOD   CAUSE  .  .  .    155 

XVII.    HIS    FORTUNE   .  165 


8 


HE  INTRODUCES  HIMSELF 

DID  ever  ye  dream  it  was  the  Sab- 
bath,  and   waken   up   to   find   it 
was    really    Wednesday    mornin', 
10  minutes  to  the  time  ye  was  dew  at  the 
shop? 

I  done  that  the  other  mornin'.  Ye 
would  maybe  think  I  had  a  guid  enough 
excuse,  dreamin'  aboot  a  respectible  thing 
like  the  Sabbath;  but  ma  aunt  had  slep' 
in  likewise,  and  it  must  ha'e  been  a 
bad  dream  wi'  her,  for  she  was  as  cross 
as  2  sticks,  and  said  I  had  took  advan- 
tage o'  her  semolina,  or  whatever  she 
calls  the  disease  that  she  declares  keeps 
her  frae  sleepin'  till  aboot  3  a.m.  in  the 
mornin'  though  she  commences  her 
9 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


snoarin'  a  long  time  afore  that.  She 
likes  things  wi'  grand  names.  I  suppose 
that  comes  o'  mixin'  wi'  the  gentry  folk 
she  washes  for. 

Her  and  me  bides  together.  I  am 
an  orphin,  and  she  is  a  single  spinster. 
Her  name  is  Miss  M.  McBean,  and 
mines  is  J.  Pryde.  I  preffer  mines. 
When  she  is  in  a  guid  humour  she  calls 
me  Johnny;  when  she  is  not,  it  is  John. 
It  is  mostly  John.  My  age  is  16  next 
July;  dear  knows  what  hers  is — about 
50,  perhaps.  She  keeps  a  wee  landry, 
and  I  assist  P.  Clark,  the  grocer.  I  ha'e 
been  at  the  job  noo  for  6  month.  It  is 
pretty  rotten,  but  this  is  war-time.  As 
soon  as  I  can  save  a  bit  I  am  gaun 
abroad,  wi'  a  revolver,  to  seek  ma  for- 
tune. When  I  get  ma  wages  at  the  end 
o'  the  week  I'll  possess  9/-,  all  but  8/- 
pinched  as  usual  by  ma  aunt;  but  the 
bob'll  be  a  start.  I  am  a  strick  tee- 
10 


HE  INTRODUCES  HIMSELF 

totaler,  and  intend  for  to  gi'e  up  smokin' 
afore  long. 

I  first  seen  the  light  in  Glasgow, 
though  I  canna  mind  whether  it  was  gas 
or  electric  (joke),  and  I  was  gey  juvenile 
—about  a  J — when  I  was  brought  to 
Kirkside.  The  Kirkside  folk  calls  it  a 
toon,  I  suppose  because  it's  got  a  Pictur' 
Hoose.  It's  a  potty  wee  place,  but  said 
to  be  healthy  for  folk  that  agrees  wi' 
damp. 

I  ha'e  0  to  say  against  ma  aunt,  excep' 
that  she  has  a  bad  "temper,  and  doesna 
ken  what  fun  is.  She  used  to  lether  me 
a  lot,  but  noo  I'm  ower  big  for  that.  I 
could  knock  her  doon  wi'  1  blow,  but 
only  a  coward  would  strike  a  woman 
smaller  nor  hissel'.  She  brought  me  up. 
There  was  money  left  for  her  to  do  it 
wi',  so  she  hasna  much  to  grummle 
aboot. 

But  ye  cannot  please  her!  Fancy  her 
11 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


blamin'  me  for  sleepin'  in,  that  cauld, 
frosty  mornin',  when  she  should  ha'e 
been  up  and  had  ma  breakfast  ready! 
Oh,  but  I  wouldna  ha'e  said  a  single  word 
aboot  that  if  she  hadna  started  yatterin' 
aboot  ma  laziness,  tellin'  me  I  ought  to 
think  shame  o'  masel'  for  no'  ha'ein  the 
fire  lit.  I  had  tried  to  kindle  it,  but 
couldna  find  neither  parafine  nor  ter- 
pentine.  Weel,  I  tell't  her  pretty  sharp- 
like  it  wasna  a  man's  place  to  rise  and 
kindle  the  fire,  as  she  would  ha'e  kent 
better  if  she  hadna  been  an  auld  maid. 
That  got  her  monkey  up. 

:<Ye  young  rascal,"  she  says,  near 
fombing  at  the  mooth,  "hoo  dare  ye  gi'e 
up  sich  impiddence?  I  dinna  believe  ye 
was  dreamin'  aboot  the  Sabbath!  I 
believe  ye  was  lyin'  awake  a'  the  time, 
hopin'  I  would  sleep  in!  But  I'll  tell  ye 
something!"  says  she.  "If  ye  canna 
rise  in  the  mornin',  ye'll  never  rise  in  the 
12 


HE  INTRODUCES  HIMSELF 

world,  and  ha'e  a  shop  o'  your  own,  like 
Mr.  Clark." 

"Hooch!"  says  I.  "I  wouldna  tak' 
his  shop  in  a  gift!  I  would  sooner  be  a 
corp  nor  a  grocer!  Did  ever  ye  hear  o' 
a  grocer  ha'ein'  adventures — excep', 
maybe,  wi'  a  moose  at  the  cheese  or  a 
black  beetle  in  the  treacle?" 

:<You  and  your  adventures!"  she  cries. 
"That's  what  comes  o'  gaun  to  the  pic- 
tur'  hoose  and  readin'  trash  aboot  bad 
folk." 

"If  ye  was  readin'  less,  yersel',  oot  o' 
yon  penny  novels,  ye  would  sleep  better 
and  be  fit  for  your  work  in  the  mornin'," 
says  I.  I  am  a  great  reader  maseF, 
when  I  ha'e  naething  better  on,  but  pre- 
serve me  frae  the  saps  she  reads — a' 
aboot  love  and  so  4th ! 

Hooever,  I  thought  it  was  time  I  was 
tryin'  to  put  her  into  a  better  temper,  so 
I  lets  oot  a  hearty  laugh  and  says,  says 
13 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


I:  "I  suppose  last  night  ye  was  dreamin' 
ye  was  bein'  chased  by  a  noble  duke,  and 
ye  didna  want  to  waken  up  afore  he 
catched  ye!" 

But  it  was  nae  use;  in  fac'  it  seemed  to 
annoy  her.  So  I  jist  let  yer  yatter  till  I 
had  got  ootside  ma  breakfast,  and  then  I 
made  a  B-line  for  the  shop.  It  wasna 
the  1st  time  I  had  been  late,  and  I  kent 
P.  Clark  wouldna  be  extra  pleased, 
though  him  and  me  gets  on  fairly  weel  as 
a  rule.  He  can  see  a  joke — whiles. 

"8.30!"  says  he,  puttin'  on  his  specs. 
"What  kep'  ye?" 

"I  dreamt  it  was  the  Sabbath,  and 
slep'  in,"  I  says,  as  humble  as  I 
could. 

"Aweel,"  says  he,  "it's  a  peety  ye 
troubled  to  rise  on  ma  a/c!  There's 
your  wages!"  And  he  flung  2/-  on  the 
coonter  and  started  to  sweep  oot  the  shop 

hissel*. 

14 


HE  INTRODUCES  HIMSELF 

I'll  no'  deny  I  was  surprised.  "Is  this 
the  sack?"  I  asks,  when  I  had  got  ma 
breath. 

"It  is,  though  ye  deserve  the  boot," 
says  he,  sweepin'  away  like  mad. 

"But  I  dreamt  it  was  the  Sabbath," 
says  I. 

''That's  to  your  credit,"  says  he,  "but 
it'll  no'  help  mines.  Shift!" 

"I'm  sorry,  Mr.  Clark,"  says  I  wi' 
great  patience,  for  I  didna  see  ma  way  to 
mak'  a  change  jist  then. 

"I  believe  ye,"  says  he.  "A  lad  that 
canna  rise  in  the  mornin'  is  like  to  be 
sorry  for  a  heap  o'  things  afore  he's  an 
auld  man." 

"Did  ye  never  sleep  in  yoursel',  Mr. 
Clark?"  I  asks  him,  vera  polite-like. 

"Never!"  says  he,  and  near  swep'  the 
feet  frae  under  me.  "Never!"  he  says 
again. 

I  didna  even  wink,  but  I  got  a  barrel 
15 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


o*   taties   betwixt  him   and  me  afore  I 
says:   "Ye've  been  lucky,  Mr.  Clark." 

"Maybe,'*  says  he.  "There's  nae  luck 
for  sleepers-in,  anyway." 

"I'm  no*  so  sure  aboot  that,"  says  I 
afore  I  right  kent  what  I  was  say  in'. 

"What?"  he  cries,  stoppin'  work  and 
lookin'  hard  at  me.  "Would  ye  contera- 
dict  me,  ma  lad?  Vera  weel !  Prove  your 
words,  or  tak*  a  crack  fare  this  besom!" 
And  he  got  betwixt  me  and  the  door. 

So  I  tell't  him  an  antidote  aboot  a 
chap  that  was  for  travellin'  to  America 
by  sea.  The  chap  had  paid  his  passage 
and  packed  up  his  duds  and  everything; 
but  on  the  mornin'  he  was  to  sail  he  slep' 
in  and  missed  the  boat. 

"And  lost  a  guid  situation  at  the  other 
end,  I'll  be  bound!"  says  Clark. 

"Like  enough,"  says  I,  "for  the  job 
was  wi'  a  millionaire."     It  jist  cam'  into 
ma  heid  to  say  that. 
16 


HE  INTRODUCES  HIMSELF 

"Then  he  might  ha'e  married  the 
millionaire's  daughter  and  been  a  million- 
aire hissel'!"  cries  Clark,  gettin'  quite 
excited.  "But  he  slep*  in!  Oh,  dear, 
dear!  he  slep'  in!" 

"He  did,"  says  I.  "And  the  boat  was 
lost  wi'  everybody  on  board." 

At  first  I  was  feart  I  had  done  for 
maseP.  Clark  glowered  at  me  for  ages, 
and  then  he  turned  and  glowered  at  a 
piece  of  Gorgonzola  cheese  that  wouldna 
sell,  and  mumbled  "ay!"  to  hissel'  vera 
slow,  6  or  7  times.  Then  he  picked  up 
the  2/-  and  put  it  in  his  pocket,  and 
heaved  the  besom  at  me,  sayin': 

"I'll  gi'e  ye  another  chance,  but,  mind 
ye,  it's  the  last!" 


17 


II 

QUEER  CUSTOMERS 

YE  meet  wi'  some  queer  things  in  the 
grocery  trade  forbye  the  groceries. 
Whiles  I  think  the  lady  customers 
is  the  queerest.  Clark's  isna  what  they 
call  an  extensive  premmisses;  it's  just  a 
wee  shop;  but  it's  noted  for  quality  o' 
provisions — "Clark's  Bacon  Cannot  be 
Beat,"  &c. — and  ye  would  be  surprised 
at  the  variety  o'  customers  we've  got; 
rich  &  poor  &  great  &  sma'  &  J  &  J. 
Mind  ye,  it's  no'  aye  the  rich  that  buys 
the  best,  nor  the  poor  that  buys  the 
rottenest  goods.  It  would  astonish  ye 
to  hear  what  some  folk  in  big  hooses  eats; 
but,  of  course,  that's  a  trade  secret. 
But  there  canna  be  any  harm  in  remarkin' 
18 


QUEER  CUSTOMERS 


a  few  remarks  on  oor  chief  queerosities, 
the  lady  customers. 

They're  no'  a'  alike,  by  any  means. 
Some  is  snotty,  and  some  is  hotty,  and 
some,  I  doobt,  is  dotty;  and  here  and 
there  ye  strike  a  nice,  dacent  body  among 
them.  But  takin'  them  a'  roun',  it  beats 
me  to  ken  hoo  P.  Clark  can  put  up  wi' 
them.  I  suppose  it's  the  man's  livin', 
but  I'd  sooner  be  a  turk  nor  cow-tow  to 
some  o'  them,  especially  the  sort  that 
looks  at  ye  as  if  ye  was  damaged  fruit, 
and  speaks  as  if  they  was  feart  a  loose 
tooth  would  fall  oot.  We've  got  severeal 
o'  that  brand.  They  walks  in  as  if  they 
was  ower  fine  to  breath  the  same  air  as  a 
grocer,  perfumed  like  a  pomade  factery, 
and  ye  can  hardly  mak'  oot  what  they're 
sayin' — whether  they're  askin'  for  butter 
or  margerine  or  washin'  soda. 

Oh,  I  ken  fine  P.  Clark  doesna  enjoy  it. 
One  night,  after  the  shop  was  shut,  he 
19 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


started  to  groan  ower  a  postcard  jist  re- 
ceived wi'  these  words  (I  copied  the  p.c.) : 

"Mrs.  Blowman-Smith  is  exceedingly 
annoyed  to  find  that  Mr.  Clark  has  sent 
her  144  Fly-papers  instead  of  1  hot.  of 
Cross's  Finest  Capers,  which  she  most 
distinctly  ordered.  Mrs.  Blowman- 
Smith  regards  the  blunder  as  quite  in- 
excusable, as  this  is  not  the  season  for 
flies,  and  will  thank  Mr.  Clark  to  have 
his  abominations  removed  at  once." 

"The  Lord  kens,"  says  Clark,  "that 
it's  no'  the  season  for  flies,  and  I  hope  He 
kens  likewise  the  deeficulty  I  had  to  get 
the  papers  for  her.  And  I  could  swear 
the  woman  said  *a  gross  o'  fly-papers.' 
but  she's  the  sort  that  bites  yer  nose 
off  if  ye  ask  them  to  repeat  their  words. 
John,  was  ye  no'  in  the  shop  when  she 
gi'ed  the  order?" 

20 


QUEER  CUSTOMERS 


"I  was,"  says  I;  "but  I  thought  she 
said  finnan  haddies." 

"Na,  na!"  says  he.  "She  ordered  half 
a  pun'  o'  thin  cut  ham,  and  a  packet  o* 
song-bird  seed,  and 

"She  should  try  a  doze  o'  the  seed  to 
help  her  voice,"  says  I. 

But  Clark  wasna  on  for  fun  then. 
"Her  a/c  isna  up  to  much,"  says  he,  "and 
it's  aboot  9  month  behind;  but  I 
wouldna  like  to  see  her  gang  past  the 
shop." 

"What  ye'll  dae  wi'  the  fly-papers,  Mr. 
Clark?"  I  asks  him  respectful-like. 
"Flies'll  no'  be  in  season  for  aboot  6 
month  yet." 

"Aw,"  he  grones,  "they'll  likely  dry 
up  and  be  a  deid  loss." 

"Weel,  then,"  says  I,  "would  ye  no' 
reduce  the  price  and  ask  her  to  stick  to 
them?" 

At  that  he  gi'ed  a  feble  smile  like  an' 
21 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


expirin'  sheep.  "I've  thought  o'  smarter 
things  than  that  in  ma  time,"  says  he, 
"  but  it  doesna  pay  to  gi'e  back-chat  to  a 
customer.  We  ha'e  jist  got  to  tak'  it 
lyin'  doon,  ma  lad." 

Aweel,  when  Clark  gets  hisseP  into  that 
state  there's  nae  use  talkin'. 

Next  morning  I  called  wi'  the  capers. 
The  lady  cam'  herseP  to  the  back-door, 
and  the  servant  gi'ed  me  a  wink  and 
scooted.  The  lady  had  gold  glasses  on 
her  nose,  which  was  sharp  enough  to 
ha'e  dug  for  worms.  I  was  rael  polite; 
I  tell't  her  Mr.  Clark  was  near  demented 
wi'  grieff,  and  hoped  she  would  overlook 
it  this  time.  She  said  she  hoped  Mr. 
Clark  wouldna  forget  to  credit  the  fly- 
papers. I  promised  to  look  into  the 
matter  masel.'  And  then  I  remarked 
that  we  would  soon  be  gettin'  fine  weather, 
and  the  flies  would  be  wi'  us  again,  no' 
forgettin'  the  wasps  and  bumbees  and 
22 


QUEER  CUSTOMERS 


earwigs,  and  a  few  doz.  fly-papers  was 
handy  things  to  ha'e  aboot  the  hoose. 
But  it  was  nae  use;  in  the  end  I  had  to 
tak'  the  lot  back  to  the  shop,  feelin'  gey 
vexed  for  Clark. 

Some  o'  the  ladies  has  awfu*  little 
conshense  for  their  size — something  like 
a  pea  in  a  hogshead.  To  hear  them,  ye 
would  think  the  war  was  merely  some- 
thing that  made  the  sugar  and  butter 
scarse.  There's  a  Mrs.  Proudfit  that 
lives  in  a  big  hoose,  a  mile  &  a  \  frae  the 
shop,  and  she's  the  limit.  A  while  back 
the  young  man  that  assisted  Clark  at  the 
coonter  gaed  awa'  to  dae  his  bit.  Clark 
got  in  a  girl  to  fill  his  place,  but  what  wi' 
her  catchin*  measles  and  mumps  and 
influenzia,  one  after  the  other,  she  hasna 
been  a  great  help,  and  there  wasna  an- 
other to  be  got  in  Kirkside.  So  me  and 
Clark  has  had  oor  work  cut  oot. 

The  other  afternoon,  just  after  I  had 
23 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


got  back  frae  ma  last  delivery  (as  I 
supposed),  this  Mrs.  Proudfit  drives  up 
in  her  motor  and  looks  into  the  shop, 
wi'  her  nose  up  and  her  eyes  doon,  for 
she's  one  o'  the  hotty  sort,  and  orders  a 
sma'  tin  o'  Brownsbury's  Cocoa  to  be 
sent  at  once.  And  then  off  she  drives, 
furs  and  silk  stockin's  an'  a'! 

She  called  it  "cow-cow,"  wi'  a  face  like 
a  hen  takin'  a  drink.  If  another  cus- 
tomer, Miss  Prince — but  she's  an  o.k. 
lady — hadna  been  in  the  shop  at  the  time, 
I'm  pretty  sure  Clark  would  ha'e  let  oot 
a  bad  word,  though  he  has  nae  great 
skill  at  the  cursin'.  As  for  me,  I  had  to 
shove  a  fig  in  ma  mooth  to  keep  back  a 
dammit.  Her  and  her  "cow-cow"!  If 
I  had  been  Clark  I  would  ha'e  sent  her  a 
tin  o'  condensed  milk. 

Afterwards  Clark  said  it  was  doobtless 
want    of    thought    that    prevented    her 
takin'  the  4  oz.  tin  in  her  car. 
24 


QUEER  CUSTOMERS 


"And  where  does  thought  come  frae?" 
said  I. 

"In  the  case  o'  female  customers," 
says  he,  "I  would  be  disposed  to  blame  it 
on  the  brain.  The  Golden  Rule  doesna 
apply  to  the  Grocery  Trade.  Weel, 
weel;  here's  her  cocoa,  and  the  sooner 
ye're  awa',  ma  lad,  the  sooner  ye'll  be 
back." 

So  that  was  an  extra  3  mile  tramp  in 
the  rain,  for  ma  bike  was  bein'  repaired; 
and  if  her  ladyship  didna  choke  on  her 
"cow-cow,"  it  wasna  for  want  o'  ma 
prayers. 

But  I  near  forgot  to  tell  ye  what  I 
done  aboot  the  144  fly-papers,  which  kep' 
prayin'  on  ma  mind,  for  I  was  feart  they 
would  dry  up  afore  the  fly  season,  and 
I  didna  want  P.  Clark  to  lose  the  cash, 
especially  as  I  would  be  dew  a  rise  in 
June.  So  the  next  Sabbath,  when  ma 
aurit  was  sleepin'  off  an  extra  guid  dinner, 
25 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


I  got  to  work  on  the  clean  back  o'  a  last 
year's  calender.  And  this  is  what  I  done 
wi'  pen  and  ink,  for  I'm  no  J  bad  at  the 
printin'. 

DANGER! 

OWING  TO  THE  WAR  THERE  IS 
LIKELY  TO  BE  A  GREAT  SCARSETY  OF 
FLY-PAPERS  IN  THE  COMING  SEASON! 

BEWARE! 

NEXT  SUMMER  THE  FLIES  AND 

OTHER  VERMING  PESTS  WILL  PROBLY 

BE  UNPRESLDENTED  IN  HISTORY! 

WAKE  UP,  KIRKSIDE! 
CUSTOMERS  IS  RESPECTFULLY  REC- 
COMMENDED  TO  BUY  THEIR  FLY- 
PAPER AT  ONCE. 

P.  CLARK 

HAS  WITH  GREAT  DIFFICULTY 

SECURED  A  SMALL  CONSIGNMENT 

OF  THE  FINEST  QUALITY.    N.B.— NOT 

MORE  THAN  \  DOZ.  F.  P.'s  SUPPLIED 

TO  SINGLE  CUSTOMERS,  BUT  1  DOZ.  TO 

MARRIED. 
SHOP  EARLY! 
GOD  SAVE  THE  KING! 
26 


QUEER  CUSTOMERS 


The  next  night,  when  I  was  leavin' 
the  shop,  I  left  it  on  Clark's  desk.  That 
was  a  fortnight  back,  and  Clark  hasna 
spoke  aboot  it;  but  I  ken  it's  still  in  his 
desk,  so  maybe  ye'll  see  it  in  the  window 
yet.  On  Saturday  night  he  gi'ed  me  a 
2  Ib.  jar  o'  marmalade  for  masel'. 


Ill 

THAT  GORGONZOLA 

EVERY  mornin',at8.30a.m.,promp', 
I  sally  4th,  as  the  book  says,  to  seek 
for  orders.     It  was  kin5  o'  excitin'  at 
first,  when  I  was  green  to  the  job,  but  noo 
I'm  aboot  fed  up  wi'  it.     I  wouldna  be  a 
comercial  traveller  for  £1,000,000.     If  it 
wasna  that  P.  Clark  was  dependin'  on 
me,  I  would  chuck  it  and  become  a  famous 
explorer  or  something  o'  that  sort. 

It's  gey  wearisome  workin'  roun'  the 
same  auld  hooses  day  after  day,  in  the 
rottenest  weather,  and  whiles  coverin'  a 
mile  jist  to  be  tell't  "naething  this 
mornin'."  And  it's  exhaustin'  for  the 
brains,  for  ye've  got  to  keep  mind  o'  a' 
the  perishin'  things  Clark  wants  to  get 
28 


THAT  GORGONZOLA 


quit  o',  sich  as  fruit,  sassiges,  finnans, 
kippers,  biled  ham,  etc.  Clark  usually 
tells  me,  afore  I  start,  a  few  things  to 
temp'  the  folk  wi',  but  I  whiles  mention 
a  thing  on  ma  own  a/c,  and  noo  and  then 
the  bait  gets  swallowed. 

I'm  no'  as  keen  on  that  part  o'  the 
game  as  I  was  at  th'  beginnin'.  I  got 
discouraged  ower  a  bit  o'  cheese  called 
Gorgonzola  that  had  been  in  the  shop 
since  afore  ma  time,  and  seemed  like  to 
bide  there  for  ever  and  ever.  Oh,  yon's  a 
fearsome  cheese! — but  ye  never  can  tell 
what  the  gentry'll  be  eatin'  next. 

I  hadna  been  long  in  the  shop  afore  I 
seen  that  P.  Clark  was  unhappy  aboot 
that  Gorgonzola.  When  trade  was  slack 
he  would  sort  o'  drift  ower  to  the  shelf 
where  it  bided  under  a  big  glass  cover, 
and  stand  and  look  at  it  meloncolly-like, 
and  noo  and  then  let  oot  a  wee  grone.  I 
was  vexed  for  the  man — there  would  be 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


5  or  6  Ib.  o'  the  stuff — and  one  day  I 
says,  respectful-like,  says  I: 

"There  doesna  seem  to  be  any  great 
run  on  that  article,  Mr.  Clark." 

"Nae  run  at  a',"  says  he,  "as  far  as 
human  bein's  is  concerned." 

"Has  it  gaed  oot  o'  fashion,  or  what?" 
I  asks  him,  for  he  seemed  willin'  to  speak 
aboot  it. 

"That  Gorgonzola,  ma  lad,"  says  he, 
"was  ta'en  into  stock  to  oblige  a  gentle- 
man that  was  passionitely  fond  o'  it. 
He  tell't  me  he  could  guarantee  to  tak' 
at  least  a  pun'  a  week,  and  the  riper  the 
better.  But  jist  after  he  had  got  the 
first  pun'- 

"Dinna  tell  me  the  blighter  gaed  back 
on  his  word!"  I  cries. 

"Whisht,  John!"  says  he,  lookin'  seri- 
ous. "The  puir  gentleman  is  defunk. 
His  end  was  vera  sudden." 

"I  dinna  wonder  at  that!"  says  I. 
30 


THAT  GORGONZOLA 


"But  could  ye  no'  ha'e  got  his  widow  to 
tak'  ower  the  lump?" 

"He  was  a  bachelor,"  says  Clark. 

"Weel,  upon  ma  sam,"  says  I,  "yeVe 
had  rotten  bad  luck.  Is  there  naebody 
in  Kirkside — 

"Thank  ye  for  your  sympathy,"  he 
says,  and  put  up  his  hand  to  stop  me. 
"  We'll  leave  it  at  that."  And  he  wouldna 
say  another  word  aboot  it.  He's  an 
awfu'  chap  to  tak'  things  lyin'  doon,  is 
P.  Clark. 

After  another  week  had  rolled  by,  and 
neither  him  nor  the  Gorgonzola  was 
lookin'  ony  cheerier,  I  thought  I  would 
tak'  the  thing  in  hand  masel.'  I  wasna 
gaun  to  surrender  wi'oot  a  struggle  to  a 
Gorgonzola  cheese.  So  that  night,  lyin' 
in  ma  bed,  listenin'  to  ma  aunt's  snoars, 
I  made  up  a  sort  o'  wee  speech;  and  the 
next  mornin'  I  mentioned  the  Gorgon- 
zola at  every  back-door  and  a  few  front 
31 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


ones.  Some  o'  the  servant  girls  seemed 
to  think  it  was  a  joke,  but  I  telPt  them, 
if  they  gi'ed  me  an  order,  they  would 
soon  see  it  was  a  serious  affair.  I  could 
only  get  one  to  gang  and  ask  her  mis- 
tress if  she  wouldna  like  a  nice  cut  o' 
choice  Gorgonzola,  and  she  brought  back 
word  that  her  mistress  would  look  in  and 
see  the  cheese  the  first  time  she  was  in 
the  toon — which  would  ha'e  been  quite 
fatle.  Another  girl  said  she  would  gi'e 
up  her  place  if  the  mistress  allowed  sich 
a  thing  to  cross  the  doorstep.  Another 
said  she  was  sure,  frae  its  name,  it 
was  made  in  Germany,  and  Clark 
and  me  should  think  shame  to  be 
helpin'  the  enemy  in  sich  a  bare-faced 
fashion. 

Ma  aunt's  aye  tellin'  me  I  ha'ena  got 

the  perseverance  to  succeed  in  anything, 

but  that's  jist  her  ignerance.     I  tell  ye, 

I   kep'   on   mentionin'   that   Gorgonzola 

32 


THAT  GORGONZOLA 


for  near  a  fortnight,  wi'oot  gettin'  a 
single  kind  word.  And  that  wasna  the 
worst.  A  lot  o'  the  servant  girls  began 
to  tak'  their  fun  off  me,  and  some  o' 
them  calls  me  Johnny  Gorgonzola  to  this 
day!  Sometimes  they  would  start  on  it 
afore  I  could  say  a  word.  They  would 
ask  hoo  Mr.  Gorgonzola  was  keepin'  this 
mornin',  and  hope  he  hadna  had  a  bad 
night,  jist  as  if  the  dashed  thing  was  a 
frien'  o'  mines.  They  would  ask  its  age, 
and  hoo  high  it  could  jump,  and  was  it 
fond  o'  music,  and  so  4th.  Oh,  there 
was  nae  end  to  the  chaff,  and,  to  tell 
ye  Lhe  truth,  I  began  to  wish  I  had 
left  the  Gorgonzola  to  dee  a  nateral 
death. 

But  ye  never  ken  your  luck,  no'  even 
in  the  grocery  trade.  I  had  gi'ed  up 
hope  when,  one  mornin',  I  hit  the  bull's 
eye,  and  in  the  last  place  I  expected — the 
Free  Kirk  manse.  The  minister's  lady 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


happened  to  be  at  the  door  hersel',  and 
frae  the  cock  o'  her  eye  I  fancied  she  had 
rose  on  her  right  side  that  mornin'.  So 
after  we  had  got  through  the  ordinar' 
business  I  says,  very  polite-like,  says  I: 

"If  ye  please,  ma'am,  Mr.  Clark,  has 
secured "  —that  was  true,  for  he  had  it 
under  a  thick  glass  cover — "a  choice  peice 
o'  the  finest  Gorgonzola  cheese— 

"  Gorgonzola ! "  she  cries. 

"That's  it's  name,  ma'am,  and  it's 
nature's  the  same,"  says  I. 

"Gorgonzola!"  she  says  again,  and 
thinks  for  a  whiley.  Then  she  says: 
"Not  too  ripe,  is  it,  my  boy?" 

"Jist  commencin'  for  to  bud,"  says  I. 
N.B. — Folk  ha'e  different  notions  o'  ripe- 
ness in  cheeses. 

Then  she  bids  me  bide  a  minute,  and  I 
guessed  she  was  off  to  tell  the  minister, 
though  I  would  never  ha'e  said  he  looked 
a  Gorgozolian. 

34 


THAT  GORGONZOLA 


In  a  wee  while  she  comes  back  and 
says:  "Yes,  you  may  send  a  pound  of  the 
Gorgonzola." 

I  tell  ye,  I  jist  as  near  as  near  flung  ma 
cap  in  the  air.  I  couldna  get  back  to 
the  shop  quick  enough;  in  fac',  I  forgot 
aboot  \  a  doz.  calls.  And  I  ran  into  the 
shop  yellin'  "Hurray!" 

"Guidsake,  laddie!"  cries  P.  Clark, 
puttin'  on  his  specs.  "What's  up  wi' 
ye?  Is't  a  naval  victory?" 

"I've  got  quit  o'  a  pun'  o'  your  auld 
Gorgonzola!"  I  tells  him. 

"Ye've  what?"  He  seemed  to  be 
owercome  wi'  joy. 

"I'm  sayin'  I've  got  quit  o'  a  pun'  o' 
the  defunk  gentleman's  fancy  cheese," 
says  I.  "It's  been  terrible  hard  work, 
but  ye're  welcome." 

"Oh    my!"    says    he    severeal    times. 
"What  on  earth  made  ye  tak'  an  order 
for  a  thing  I  canna  supply?" 
35 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


"Canna  supply?"  I  says,  and  sat  doon 
in  a  barrel  o'  grapes  at  8d.  per  Ib. 

"I  couldna  endure  it  in  ma  shop  an- 
other day,"  he  says,  and  groned,  "and 
last  night  I  took  it  doon  to  the  river  and 
drooned  it." 

"Gey  discouragin',  was  it  no'?" 


36 


IV 

OBLIGING  A  GIRL 

THERE'S  a  great  scarsety  o'  domestic 
servants  in  Kirkside  the  noo.  The 
other  day,  in  the  shop,  2  ladies 
was  near  greetin'  aboot  it.  They  had 
came  to  inquire  at  Clark  if  he  could  tell 
o'  any  respectible  girls  that  wanted  a 
happy  hame  wi'  plenty  to  eat  and  next 
to  0  to  dae;  nae  weans,  nae  washin',  nae 
late  suppers  excep'  their  own,  nae  coal 
fires  excep'  in  the  kitchen,  nae  margerine 
excep'  in  the  dinin'-room;  three  nights 
oot  a  week,  a  J  holiday  every  Wednesday, 
a  day  off  twice  a  month;  and,  of  course, 
splendid  wages. 

Clark   wagged   his   heid   the   way   he 
does  when  a  customer  asks  for  a  new-laid 
37 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


egg,  and  made  a  wee  roun'  mooth,  drawin' 
in  his  breath.  "Na,  ladies,"  he  says, 
wi'  a  grone,  "I  can  gi'e  ye  neither  help 
nor  hope — no*  if  ye  was  to  throw  in 
season-tickets  for  the  Cinema.  The  fac' 
is,  there's  no'  enough  girls  to  gang 


roun." 


But  he  was  wrang  there.  The  domes- 
tics is  maybe  few,  but  the  magority  is 
gettin'  roun'  as  fast  as  they  can.  I'm  no' 
sleepin'  when  I  mak'  ma  calls  for  orders, 
and  there's  hardly  a  mornin'  but  I  find 
a  new  face  at  an  auld  back-door,  or  the 
other  way  aboot.  The  changes  is  apt  to 
be  a  bit  confusin',  for  after  a  fortnight 
or  so  at  ma  sort  o'  job,  ye  get  into  the 
habit  o'  writin'  doon  the  address  o' 
the  face  instead  o'  the  name  on  the 
gate. 

There's  1  girl,  a  hoose-table-general, 
that's  been  in  11  places  since  the  New 
Year.  But  she's  perfectly  happy  and 
38 


OBLIGING  A  GIRL 


contented  wi'  her  lots.  As  she  says  to 
me:  "I'm  welcome  wherever  I  gang." 

I  dinna  ken  it  for  a  fac',  but  there's  a 
roumur  that  ladies  frae  big  hooses  is 
snokin'  oot  at  nights,  wi'  masks  on  their 
faces,  seekin'  for  to  kidnap  servant  girls 
belongin'  to  their  naybours.  I  wouldna 
wonder  if  it's  true.  My  Aunt,  bein'  a 
landress,  kens  as  much  aboot  the  gentry  as 
anybody  in  Kirkside  can  ken,  and  she 
says  she  wouldna  wonder  if  it  was  gospel. 
P.  Clark  thinks  the  ladies'll  be  usin' 
Id.  whistles  and  bird-lime  afore  the  war's 
finished.  Ye  see,  they're  fair  desprate, 
and  the  girls  kens  it.  It's  a  terrible  dis- 
grace in  Kirkside  to  keep  nae  servant, 
and  the  more  ye  keep  the  nobler  ye 
are. 

Ma  Aunt  was  once  washin'  at  a  hoose — 
she  whiles  gangs  oot  as  a  special  favour — 
and  in  the  afternoon  the  lady  had  com- 
pny  that  arrived  suddently  in  a  big 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


motor-car.  When  the  compny  was  in  the 
drawin'-room,  shiftin'  cookies,  &c.,  the 
lady  comes  ootside  the  door  and  cries,  as 
sweet  as  honey,  to  the  kitchen:  "So 
ye've  got  back,  Maggie";  and  up  the 
stair:  "Lizzie,  are  ye  ready  to  go  to  the 
post  now?"— and  doon  the  passage  to 
where  the  weans  was  locked  up:  'The 
children's  tea  noo,  Jane."  And  ma  Aunt 
swears  there  wasna  even  the  gohst  o'  a 
servant  in  that  hoose;  for  it  was  hersel' 
that  managed  the  tea  when  the  mistress 
was  showin'  the  compny  roun'  the  gar- 
den, and  it  was  hersel'  that  had  to  feed 
the  weans  wi'  bread  and  golden  syrup  to 
keep  them  frae  yellin'.  Oh,  ye  should 
hear  ma  Aunt  when  she's  in  a  guid  hu- 
mour, which  isna  every  fine  day. 

Of  course,   ther's   some  servants   that 

isna  aye  on  the  move.     Them  that's  up 

in  years,  for  instance,  There's  a  rare  aged 

one  at  Alma  Villa;    she'll  be  70  or  60; 

40 


OBLIGING  A  GIRL 


been  there  for  coontless  years.  Her  and 
me  gets  on  1st  class;  she  bakes  champion 
scones.  But  I  wouldna  be  her  mistress 
for  a  pension.  Auld  Kate's  the  boss  in 
that  hoose;  she's  got  to  be  buttered  on 
both  sides.  Whiles  she  comes  doon  to 
the  toon  to  coontermand  an  order  her 
mistress  has  gi'ed  when  she  wasna  on  the 
spot,  and  to  ha'e  a  crack  wi'  P.  Clark 
aboot  auld  times  and  folk  that  ha'e 
passed  awa'.  She  doesna  seem  to  be 
interested  in  folk  that's  mearly  alive. 
But  I  like  her,  though  I  never  seen  her 
laugh  but  the  once — when  the  Estab- 
lished Church  minister's  lum  went  on 
fire.  Ye  see,  Kate  gangs  to  the  Free 
Kirk. 

But  I've  got  something  to  tell  ye  aboot 
the  girl  that's  been  in  11  places  since  the 
New  Year.  She's  no  auld:  she  was  a 
big  girl  at  the  school  when  I  was  a  young 
shaver.  Her  name's  Jessie  MacAdam, 
41 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


and  she's  an  orphin  like  masel',  excep' 
that  the  aunt  that  brought  her  up  was  a 
heap  softer  nor  mines.  I  hear  her  aunt 
is  demented  at  the  way  Jessie's  changin' 
places;  but  she  needna  excite  hersel'. 
Jessie'll  no'  get  left.  She  gets  a  rise  in 
her  wages  wi'  near  every  change  she 
mak's.  Oh,  she's  no'  that  daft! 

I  think  I  mentioned  that  ma  bike  was 
bein'  repaired.  In  a  way,  the  damnage 
was  dew  to  Jessie.  The  bike  really  be- 
longs to  Clark.  I'm  ashamed  to  say  it's 
a  female  bike,  because  ma  prepossessor 
in  the  shop  was  a  girl.  She  gaed  into 
munitions,  and  noo  she  looks  doon  on 
groceries.  It's  no'  what  ye  would  call  a 
class  bike;  it  rattles  and  whiles  sticks. 
But  seein'  it's  war-time,  I  ha'ena  the 
heart  to  touch  Clark  for  a  new  one. 

Weel,  Jessie  was  awfu'  keen  to  learn  to 
ride.  I  wasna  near  as  keen  to  learn  her, 
for  she's  that  big  and  fat,  and  I'm  jist 
42 


OBLIGING  A  GIRL 


average,  and,  as  Clark  says,  it's  every- 
body's duty  to  keep  fit  the  noo.  What 
would  happen  to  the  business  if  I  was 
removed  to  the  hospital  severely  in- 
jured? 

So  I  refused  to  learn  her.  She  wasna 
the  least  offended;  in  fac',  ye  would  ha'e 
said  she  was  pleased.  For  the  next  10 
days  I  never  gaed  to  her  back-door- 
she  was  thinkin'  o'  puttin'  in  a  whole 
month  at  that  place — wi'oot  gettin'  some- 
thing for  masel'.  One  time  it  would  be  a 
nice  beef  sangwich;  another  time,  a  big 
cup  o'  Bovril  wi'  milk — fine  and  cosy  on  a 
frosty  mornin';  then  she  would  pass  me 
a  handful  o'  figs  or,  maybe,  dates;  then 
sweeties;  then  a  packet  o'  fags.  Oh,  I 
canna  mind  everything  I  got,  but  on  the 
2nd  Saturday  it  was  a  cigar  near  as  big  as 
masel'. 

"Where  got  ye  this,  Jessie?"  says  I, 
consealin'  ma  surprise. 
43 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


"Oh,  I  can  get  anything  I  fancy  in  this 
hoose,"  says  she.  "They're  that  terri- 
fied o'  losin'  ma  services.  The  master 
catched  me  smellin'  the  box,  and  he  jist 
laughed  and  gi'ed  me  one  for  ina  young 
man — that's  you,  I  don't  think.  Smoke 
it  after  your  Sabbath  dinner,  and  ye'll 
feel  like  a  toff." 

Weel,  I'm  no'  gaun  to  say  a  word  aboot 
that  cigar,  excep'  that  if  ever  I've  got  to 
smoke  another  like  it,  I'll  smoke  it  afore 
ma  guid  Sabbath  dinner. 

On  the  Monday  she  was  so  curious  to 
hear  a'  aboot  it  that  I  had  to  put  her  off 
wi'  askin'  her  if  she  had  lost  the  notion  o' 
learnin'  to  ride. 

"Oh,  it's  naething  to  me,"  says  she, 
"but  if  ye're  passin'  in  the  afternoon,  I'll 
maybe  be  at  home  to  ye." 

It  wasna  till  I  was  oot  on  the  road  that 
I  noticed  I  had  received  nae  gift  that 
mornin'. 

44 


OBLIGING  A  GIRL 


Late  that  afternnon  I  had  an  extra 
delivery  to  a  hoose  up  her  way — a  stone 
o'  split  peas  and  4  Ib.  o'  monkey  nuts  for 
some  folk  that  was  thinkin'  o'  tryin'  a 
meatless  day.  The  goods  was  in  the 
basket  in  front  o'  the  bike. 

I  thought  I  would  may  be  look  up 
Jessie  on  the  return  journey,  but  when  I 
was  passin'  her  gate,  there  she  was,  in  her 
black  dress  an'  cap  an'  apron,  as  cheery 
as  ye  like. 

"Stop,  Johnny!"  she  cries.  "We'll 
never  get  a  better  chance.  The  mistress 
is  oot,  wi'  her  best  shoes  on." 

The  next  thing  I  kent,  she  was  on  the 
bike,  me  supportin'  her  for  a'  I  was  worth. 

"Would  it  no'  be  safer  to  shove  me  up 
the  hill,"  says  she. 

"Safer  for  you,"  says  I.  "Mind  and 
clap  on  the  brake  when  I  tell  ye." 

It  wasna  a  steep  hill,  and  we  was 
gettin'  on  no'  so  bad,  when  she  screeches: 
45 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


"Oh,  mercy!  yonder's  the  mistress  coinin' 
back!  Her  frien'  must  ha'e  been  oot." 
And  she  started  laughin'  like  to  end 
hersel'. 

"Brake!  "says  I. 

She  rang  the  bell,  and  kep'  on  ringin'  it. 

"Sit  up,  for  ony  favour,"  says  I. 
"Brake,  ye  silly  elephant!" 

But  she  was  helpless  \vi*  laughin'.  And 
suddently  she  twisted  the  handlebars, 
and  yellin'  "Save  me!"  fell  sideways/  A 
gladiator  couldna  ha'e  saved  her;  be- 
sides, ma  foot  slipped.  Her  and  the  bike 
cam'  doon  on  the  top  o'  me. 

She  was  up  in  a  jiffy,  rubbin'  her  elbow 
but  still  laughin'. 

I  daresay  I  would  ha'e  laughed  masel' 
if  I  hadna  been  wonderin'  hoo  I  was  to 
collect  up  the  split  peas  and  monkey  nuts 
I  was  buried  in. 

And  the  next  thing  was  a  lecture  frae 
the  mistress  for  ill-treatin'  the  servant. 
46 


OBLIGING  A  GIRL 


Then    they    both    marched    off    wi'oot 
offerin'  to  pick  up  a  single  pea. 

Aweel,  I  never  yet  seen  any  good  come 
o'  obligin'  a  girl. 


47 


A1  the  best  o'  times,  says  P.  Clark, 
it's  nae  fun  bein'  a  grocer,  but  in 
war-time  it's  a  fair  tradegy.  For 
a  long  while  the  public  had  the  notion 
that  sugar  was  the  grocer's  only  trouble; 
but  little  did  the  public  dream  o'  the  hair- 
tearin*  that  gaed  on  when  the  shutters 
was  up.  If  I  was  wantin'  to  marrow  your 
feelin's,  supposin'  ye've  got  any,  I  could 
tell  ye  o'  hundreds  o'  grocerish  troubles; 
but  maybe  ye  wouldna  understand  what 
I  was  speakin'  aboot,  for  the  trade  isna 
to  be  learnt  in  5  minutes.  I've  been  at  it 
6  month,  and  I  dinna  ken  everything 
yet. 

So  I'll  jist  gi'e  ye  a  single  simple  exam- 
48 


THE  NEW  LAID 


pie — Eggs.  The  magority  o'  ye  kens 
what  eggs  is,  and  some  o'  ye  maybe  kens 
the  difference  betwixt  fresh  and  new- 
laid.  A  country  egg  is  mearly  an  egg 
laid  in  this  country,  though  the  toon  folk 
imagines  it's  something  special.  In  Kirk- 
side  it's  been  mostly  Irish  eggs  lately, 
excep'  to  them  that  keeps  their  own 
fouls. 

Ma  aunt  used  to  keep  hens,  but  she 
got  fed  up  wi'  servin'  the  beasts  wi'  hot 
breakfasts  every  mornin'  in  the  winter. 
She  declared  that  nae  new-laid  in  the 
world  was  worth  gettin'  chilblins  for; 
and  when  the  rush  to  keep  poltry  com- 
menced, 2  year  back,  she  got  quit  o'  her 
wee  lot  at  a  guid  price.  For  maseP,  I've 
nae  objections  to  a  newlaid,  but  if  an 
egg  is  propperly  fried,  a  few  weeks  is 
neither  here  nor  there. 

P.  Clark  had  a  try  at  the  poltry,  too, 
but  he  found  he  would  ha'e  to  retire  frae 
49 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


the  grocery  trade  to  dae  it  justice.  He 
kep'  a  book,  and  reckoned  the  eggs  was 
worth  their  weight  in  silver.  "It's  a 
woman's  job,"  he  says,  "for  a  hen  is  liker 
a  woman  in  its  ways  nor  a  man." 

Of  course,  if  poltry's  your  proffession, 
it's  another  story.  Mind  ye,  I'm  no' 
sayin'  anything  against  amatures,  as 
Clark  calls  them,  excep'  that  they  never 
gi'e  the  hen  any  credit,  and  boast  as  if 
they  had  laid  the  eggs  theirsel's. 

Weel,  no'  long  after  the  war  started, 
the  price  o'  eggs  began  to  sore,  as  a 
commercial  traveller  remarked  in  the 
shop,  and  later  on  ye  couldna  get  new- 
laids  in  Kirkside  for  love  nor  money- 
no'  that  ye  would  ever  get  rotten  ones  in 
Kirkside  for  mearly  love.  It  was  said 
that  near  every  new-laid  in  the  place 
ended  at  a  wounded  sojer,  and  I  hope 
that  was  true.  Ye're  no'  to  think  that 
P.  Clark  grudged  it.  I  ken  for  a  fac* 
50 


THE  NEW  LAID 


that  he  sent  near  a'  his  own  hens'  fruit, 
as  long  as  he  kep'  them,  to  the  nearest 
hospital,  graetis. 

But  he  payed  for  his  kindness  in  the 
shop,  for  P.  Clark  had  a  great  reputation 
for  new-laids,  and  every  day  folk  was 
comin'  in  wi'  their  "whys"  and  "whens," 
and  botherin'  the  life  oot  o'  the  man.  I 
was  new  at  ma  job  then,  and  I  tell  ye  it 
was  an  eye-opener  to  hear  what  stupid 
questions  grown-up  folk  could  ask  a  gro- 
cer in  war-time.  Naething  seemed  to 
matter  to  them  if  only  they  could  get 
their  blinkin'  new  laids,  and  when  Clark 
would  speir  if  it  was  for  a  sick  person, 
they  would  tak'  offence  as  like  as  no'. 
Ye  see,  if  it  was  really  for  a  sick  person, 
Clark  would  try  to  get  his  own  hens  to 
work  overtime;  otherwise,  no'  the  best 
customer  would  move  him.  He  was 
ower  honest  to  gi'e  them  Irish  and  chance 
it. 

51 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


But  there  was  1  woman  that  got  the 
better  o'  him.  She  was  a  Miss  Wilk — 
nae  relation  to  the  seafarin'  sort — a 
dressmaker  which  had  retired  owing  to 
the  death  of  her  aunt  which  was  wealthy. 
Oh,  that  Miss  Wilk  was  a  perfec'  pest! 
She  had  a  face  like  a  goat  eatin'  a  sour 
Granger,  and  2  or  3  times  a  day  she 
would  be  in  the  shop  speirin'  for  new- 
laids,  and  remindin'  P.  Clark  every  time 
that  he  had  promised  her,  solemn,  the 
1st  he  got  into  his  hand.  I  think  she 
had  new-laids  on  her  brains.  She  didna 
seem  to  ha'e  anything  else  to  think  aboot. 
And  she  wasna  a  reglar  customer,  neither. 
It  made  me  wild  to  see  her  gabblin'  away 
and  keepin*  the  reglar  ones  frae  the 
coonter. 

"That  woman'll  be  the  end  o'  me,"  says 
P.  Clark,  one  day,  wipin'  the  sweat  frae 
his  brow,  though  it  was  snowin'  hard 
ootside. 

52 


THE  NEW  LAID 


"Could  ye  no'  tell  her  to  gang  to  blazes 
for  her  new-laids?"  says  I.  "She  would 
get  them  ready  cooked." 

He  didna  answer  and  I  didna  ken  him 
weel  enough  then  to  continue  the  con- 
versation. 

Weel,  it  cam'  to  the  New  Year,  and  2 
or  3  days  after  that  P.  Clark  cam'  to 
the  shop  on  a  frosty  mornin'  wi'  some- 
thing in  a  wee  box,  and  lookin'  as  prood 
as  Punch.  He  called  me  ower  to  the 
coonter,  and  opened  the  box. 

"John,"  says  he,  "did  ever  ye  see  a 
hen's  egg  like  that?" 

"I  have,"  says  I,  "but  it  was  a  goose 
that  done  it."  The  egg  wasna  that  ter- 
rible big,  but  it  was  a  fair  size,  and  I  was 
willin'  to  please  the  man. 

"I  couldna  help  lettin'  ye  see  it,  afore 

it  gaed  to  some  puir  sojer  lad,"  he  says. 

"I  confess  I  had  a  notion  to  blow  it  and 

preserve  the  shell,  jist  to  show  what  a 

53 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


little    kindness    to    dumb    animals    can 
dae- 

"I  wouldna  call  hens  dumb,"  says  I, 
but  he  didna  seem  to  hear  me. 

"But  this  is  nae  time,"  says  he,  "for 
encouragin'  either  museums  or  human 
conciet.  And  so  off  it  gangs  to  the  hos- 
pital!" He  let  oot  a  wee  laugh,  as  if 
he  was  pleased. 

"Hurray!"  says  I. 

And  jist  then  Miss  Wilk  cam'  into  the 
shop  on  her  gutty  soles. 

"That's  an  egg!"  she  cries,  and  P. 
Clark  near  dropped  it.  I  was  wishin'  he 
had. 

"Ay,"  he  says,  wi'  a  feble  smile,  "ye've 
guessed  right,  Miss  Wilk." 

"New-laid?"  she  speirs,  gey  sharp. 

I  could  see  he  was  tryin'  hard  to  tell  a 
falsehood,  but  he  couldna  get  it  oot. 
"Ay,"  he  says  at  last,  like  a  wean  afore 
an  angry  teacher. 

54 


THE  NEW  LAID 


"Then  it's  mines,  accordin'  to  your 
solemn  promise,  Mr.  Clark,"  says  she. 
"Wrap  it  up!" 

He  thinks  a  wee  while,  and  says,  says 
he:  "I  hear  some  o'  the  farmers  is  sellin' 
new-laids  the  noo  at  4/9  the  dozen." 

"Oho,"  says  she.  "Catch  me  payin' 
that!  When  ye  made  the  promise,  the 
price  was  3/6.  There's  the  cash!"  And 
she  slammed  3jd.  on  the  coonter. 

I  could  see  he  was  gronein'  inside  his- 
sel'.  "But  this  is  a  special  egg,"  he  says, 
"and  it's  intended  for  some  puir  lad  in 
the  hospital." 

"I  beleive  ye,  Mr.  Clark,"  says  she, 
"but  a  bargain's  a  bargain.  Besides,  it's 
ower  big  for  an  invalid,  anyway.  It 
would  be  a  mistook  kindness.  So  hand 
it  ower,  and  I'll  no'  trouble  ye  again." 

"Ye  mean  that  ye'll  claim  nae  further 
new-laids,"  he  says,  switherin'. 

"I'll  never  enter  your  shop  again.  I'm 
55 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


removin'  frae  Kirkside  the  day  after  to- 
morrow." 

I  would  ha'e  gi'ed  J  a  week's  wages  if 
he  had  handed  her  the  egg  on  the  nose, 
but  he  mearly  took  a  bag  frae  the  nail  and 
put  the  egg  in  it  and  passed  it  ower. 

"Thank  ye,"  says  she.  "I  see  ye  can 
be  an  honest  man  when  ye  like."  She 
gi'ed  a  sour  smile,  and  gaed  to  the  door. 
I  suppose  her  teeth  was  waterin',  though 
they  was  false. 

"Bide  a  wee,  Miss  Wilk,"  says  P. 
Clark,  and  she  turned  at  the  door.  "I'll 
gi'e  ye  2/6  for  that  egg,"  says  he. 

She  jist  laughed  and  walked  oot. 

I  never  seen  a  man  sae  vexed. 

"Oh,  John,"  says  he,  "I  wish,  I  wish  a 
sojer  had  got  it.  I'd  ha'e  gi'ed  her  5 
bob  for  it." 

My!  I  was  wild!  I  dinna  ken  what 
possessed  me,  but  I  ran  to  the  door  and 
yelled : 

56 


THE  NEW  LAID 


"Boo!  ye  greedy  auld  nanny-goat!" 

Maybe   she  heard   me;    anyway,   she 

sat  suddently  doon  on  a  slide  some  weans 

had  raised,  and  when  she  got  up  she  left 

the  magority  o'  that  new-laid  behind  her. 


57 


VI 

JESSIE 

JESSIE — her  that  damnaged  ma  bike — 
cam*  into  the  shop,  the  other  day, 
when  P.  Clark  was  busy  at  the  back 
wi'  a  com.  traveller.  P.  Clark  usually 
lets  the  corns,  whistle  when  a  customer  is 
aboot,  but  when  Jessie  said  she  wanted 
but  a  packet  o'  matches,  I  gi'ed  him  the 
wink  that  I  could  undertak'  the  trans- 
action masel'.  Though  I  had  seen  Jessie 
near  every  day  since  her  dirty  treat- 
ment o'  me,  I  had  kep'  strickly  to  the 
business  o'  receivin'  and  deliverin'  orders, 
and  had  gi'ed  her  nae  chance  to  agolopise 
nor  mak'  advances. 

So  noo  I  behaved  as  if  she  was  a  com- 
plete stranger  to  me. 
58 


JESSIE 

"What  sort  o'  matches  might  ye  be 
wantin',  miss?"  I  says  careless-like.  "We 
ha'e  a  variety  o'  brands." 

"If  ye've  a  brand  that'll  dae  what 
matches  used  to  dae  when  you  and  me 
was  young,  Johnny,"  she  says,  "I'll  tak' 
it." 

I  ingored  her  remark.  "Dae  ye  want 
safeties  or  the  other  sort?"  I  asks  kind 
o'  sharp. 

"The  last  safeties  we  got  was  ower 
safe,"  says  she.  :<The  broon  stuff  on 
the  box  gaed  done  long  afore  the 
matches.  Let's  see  something  that'll 
dae  the  trick  once  in  a  while.  Price 
is  nae  objec'." 

"We  canna  garrantee  any  matches  the 
noo.  It's  war  time,"  says  I. 

"Still,  we've  got  to  keep  the  hame  fires 
burnin',  Johnny,"  says  she. 

'Ye've  been  keepin'  a  few  burnin' 
lately,"  says  I,  speakin'  sarcastic-like. 
59 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


"Hoo  dae  ye  like  your  new  place — the 
12th  since  the  New  Year — or  is  it  the 
13th?" 

"I'm  afraid  it's  no'  gaun  to  agree 
wi'  me,"  she  says,  turnin'  up  her 
eyes.  "The  master's  got  a  beard  that 
gets  in  the  soup  and  milk  puddins, 
and  one  o'  the  kids  is  learnin'  the 
fiddle.  I  doobt  I'm  ower  refined  for 
service." 

;'Ye're  no'  losin'  your  fat,  anyway," 
says  I. 

:'Ye  wouldna  like  me  to  dae  that— 
would  ye,  Johnny?"  says  she. 

"  Ach,  it  would  be  nae  odds  to  me  if  ye 
was  a  skelliton,"  says  I. 

"Crule,  crule!"  she  cries,  and  pre- 
tended  she  was  greetin'. 

"Here,  stop  it!"  says  I.  "Clark'll 
hear  ye.  The  matches  is  7Jd." 

"Charge    them    up,"    says    she.     "I 
didna  think  ye  could  be  so  hard-hearted. 
60 


JESSIE 

It  was  bad  enough  when  ye  let  me  fall 
off  the  bike." 

"Samson  couldna  ha'e  held  ye  on. 
And  ye  marched  off  and  left  me  lyin' 
among  a  stone  o'  split  peas  and  dear 
knows  hoo  many  monkey  nuts," 
says  I. 

"I  couldna  help  it,  Johnny.  Ye  ken 
the  mistress  was  there,"  says  she. 

"And  ye've  aye  declared  ye  was 
feared  for  nae  mistress,  livin'  or  deid," 
says  I. 

"Neither  I  am,"  says  she.  "But  ye 
see  it  was  this  way,  Johnny.  Strickly 
between  me  and  you,  I  had  made 
up  ma  mind  to  gi'e  her  warnin'  that 
vera  night,  but  after  her  seein'  me 
on  your  bike  I  was  feared  she  might 
get  in  her  warnin'  first — and  nae  lady 
has  ever  yet  managed  that  on 
me." 

"That's  a'  vera  fine,"  says  I,  slippin'  a 
61 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


few  sultanas  into  ma  mooth,  "but  it 
doesna  interrest  me.  Anyway,  ye'd  best 
be  gettin'  hame  wi'  the  matches,  or 
your  mistress'll  maybe  be  afore  ye  this 
time." 

"Och,  Johnny,  come  off  your  high 
horse,"  she  says,  cajolin'-like.  "I'll  pick 
up  a'  the  peas  next  time." 

"I  beleive  ye!"  says  I. 

"That's  better!"  says  she.  "When 
can  I  get  another  lesson  on  your 
bike?" 

"When  I'm  stark,  starin'  mad,"  says  I. 
"The  one  was  plenty.  I  hadna  the  use 
o'  the  bike  for  a  fortnight  after." 

"I'm  sorry  for  that,  Johnny.  But 
I'll  no'  tumble  a  2nd  time,  and  I'll  no' 
laugh,  niether,"  she  says.  "Com  on, 
lad.  Dinna  be  hard  on  a  girl  that  likes 

ye." 

But  I  shook  ma  heid,  and  shoved  the 
packet  to  her,  saying:  -"The  matches 


JESSIE 

we're  gettin'  the  noo  doesna  improve  wi' 
age." 

"My!  ye're  smart,"  says  she.  "Smart 
but  crule.  Aweel,  I'll  no'  mention  the 
bike  again,  though  I  was  hopin'  ye  would 
oblige;  for  if  I  once  could  ride  a  bit,  I  ken 
a  girl  that  would  lend  me  hers  till  I 
could  get  one  o'  ma  own.  Ye  see?  And 
yours  bein'  a  lady's  bike ' 

"It's  Mr.  Clark's,"  says  I.  "But  for 
the  war  he  would  ha'e  presented  me  wi'  a 
propper  man's  one." 

"Of  course,"  says  she;  "and  ye  de- 
serve a  propper  one.  But  think  what  an 
advantage  it  would  be  to  me.  Come, 
Johnny;  be  a  white  man!  Ye'll  never 
regret  it." 

"So  ye  say,"  says  I. 

"Listen,"  says  she.     "I  ha'e  nae  en- 
gagements for  this  evenin';   so,  if  ye  was 
takin'  a  ride  up  oor  way,  ye  might  see 
me  at  the  gate — eh?" 
63 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


"I  daresay  I  would  see  you  easier  nor 
the  gate,"  I  says;  and  like  a  silly  fool,  I 
laughed. 

"Oh,  Johnny,"  she  says,  "I'm  no* 
carin'  that  aboot  the  bike  so  long  as  you 
and  me's  frien's  again.  And  we  are — 
are  we  no'?"  Her  hand  cam'  slidin' 
across  the  coonter. 

"I'll  see  aboot  it,"  says  I.  But  I 
couldna  weel  refuse  to  shake  hands. 

"Noo  I  feel  better,"  says  she.  "I 
wouldna  care  if  I  got  the  sack.  Ting, 
ting!"  And  wi'  that  she  sloped. 

Aboot  a  minute  afterwards  I  dis- 
covered she  had  forgot  her  matches.  It 
wasna  likely  I  was  gaun  to  chase  after 
her,  so  I  put  them  to  the  side  in 
case  she  would  come  back.  But  she 
didna. 

I  canna  think  what  made  me  notice 
them  at  closin'  time.  "Dashed  nui- 
sance," thinks  I,  "but  it  wouldna  dae 
64 


JESSIE 

for  a  guid  customer  like  her  mis- 
tress to  be  wi'oot  a  match  in  the 
hoose.  ' 

So  after  I  had  ma  tea  I  got  on  the  bike, 
wi'  the  packet  in  ma  pocket. 

She  wasna  at  the  gate ;  but,  of  course,  I 
had  never  expected  to  see  her  there. 
Like  as  no'  she  had  left  the  place.  And  it 
was  the  mistress  that  cam'  to  the  back- 
door. 

"  Matches ! "  says  she.  "  Oh,  but  we've 
got  plenty — severeal  packets.  You've 
surely  made  a  mistake,  my  boy.  But 
it  was  very  good  of  you  to  come  so  late. 
Wait  a  minute."  And  she  passed  me  a 
fine  big  apple. 

I  was  beginnin'  to  think  I  had  made  a 
mistake,  but  I  said  0  to  the  lady  excep' 
"Thank  ye  kindly." 

When  I  got  ootside  the  gate,  there  was 
Jessie  rollin'  along  on  a  split-new  bike 
as  if  she  was  used  to  it. 
65 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


"Are  ye  comin'  for  a  ride,  Johnny?" 
she  cries. 

"I'll  see  maseP  jiggered  first,"  says  I. 

But  I  went — and  a  while  after  I  dis- 
covered that  she  was  mearly  wantin'  to 
mak'  a  railway  porter  jellous.  She  had 
ta'en  a'  that  trouble  for  a  man  wi'  a 
game  leg  and  a  stammer.  Girls  is  queer. 


VII 

THE  LOVE-SICK  PETER  KNOX 

A  a  rule,  I  mak'  ma  mornin'  calls  in 
the  comp'ny  o'  Peter  Knox.  Peter 
and  me  was  in  the  same  class  at 
the  school,  but  Peter's  2  year  aulder  nor 
me.  Though  he  was  backward  at  his 
lessons,  he  wasna  so  stupid  then  as  he  is 
noo.  He  is  noo  attached  to  Goldie  the 
fishmonger,  and  gettin'  liker  a  cod  every 
day.  He  shaves  hissel'  twice  a  week,  and 
has  lately  took  to  puttin'  pomade  on  his 
hair  and  turnin'  red  in  the  face  if  a  girl 
comes  doon  the  road. 

Na;   Peter's  no'  the  man  he  was,  and 

his  comp'ny's  nae  great  catch  nooadays. 

He  has  become  what  the  newspapers  calls 

a  Pessimism;  he  canna  see  the  bright  side 

67 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


o'  anything,  and  he  aye  seems  to  be  pre- 
parin'  for  the  worst.  One  day  he's 
wishin'  he  hadna  gaed  into  the  fish  trade; 
the  next  he's  fearin'  he'll  get  the  sack. 
Whiles  he's  afraid  he'll  be  cut  off  when 
he's  prime,  and  whiles  he  wishes  he  was 
defunk  on  the  spot.  I  got  that  defunk 
word  frae  P.  Clark.  I  like  it.  It's 
cheerier  nor  "deid." 

I'm  gaun  to  tell  ye  the  truth  aboot 
Peter.  He's  got  hissel'  mashed  on  Jessie, 
the  servant  girl  which  damnaged  ma 
bike.  I've  telPt  him  a  doz.  times  he 
hasna  a  chance,  but  that  doesna  seem  to 
help  him  any.  For  a  while  he  was  in  a 
terrible  state  because  he  couldna  get  near 
Jessie,  owin'  to  her  bein'  wi'  a  family 
which  didna  pateronise  Goldie — some 
dispute  aboot  the  perfume  o'  a  haddie,  I 
believe  it  was;  and  he  hadna  the  neck  to 
knock  at  the  back  door  mearly  in  a 
frien'ly  way.  And  of  course  ye'll  under- 
68 


THE  LOVE-SICK  PETER  KNOX 

stand  that  it  wouldna  be  the  propper 
thing  for  him  to  come  to  the  door  along 
wi'  masel'.  There's  customers  which  pre- 
fers to  gi'e  their  grocery  orders  private- 
like;  and  whiles  I  dinna  wonder  at 
it. 

Peter  used  to  grone  when  I  left  him  to 
gang  to  Jessie's  door,  and  when  I  cam' 
back  he  would  speir  in  a  voice  fit  for  a 
funeral : 

"Hoo  was  she  lookin'  the  day, 
Johnny?" 

"Still  growin',  and  sent  her  fondest 
love,  Peter,"  I  would  reply,  if  I  was  in  a 
cheery  mood;  if  I  wasna — "Ach,  awa' 
and  chase  yoursel',  ye  muckle  sumph! 
What  dae  I  care  hoo  she's  lookin'?  It's 
orders  I'm  after,  no'  funny  faces." 

Frae  the  above  ye  might  think  Peter 
had  a  wonderful  guid  temper;  but  it's 
no'  that.  His  spirit  is  completely  broke 
wi'  love. 

69 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


Jist  listen  to  what  he  says  to  me  the 
other  mornin'. 

"Johnny,"  he  says,  "dae  ye  ever  write 
potery  noo?" 

"Potery!"  says  I.  "I  ha'ena  wrote 
potery  since  I  was  at  the  school.  The 
last  pome  I  wrote  was  aboot  1  o'  the  mas- 
ters, and  I  got  a  lickin'  for  it.  Na,"  says 
I,  "I'm  ower  busy  for  potery  nooadays, 
Peter." 

"But  I  wish  ye  would  write  a  wee  pome 
for  me,  Johnny?"  he  says. 

"Oh,  if  it's  for  you,  there's  nae 
need  to  waste  paper,"  says  I.  "Here 


ye  are ! 


"The  love-sick  Peter  Knox 
Lay  doon  in  a  herrin'  box 
And  says,  says  he:  'I  wish 
I  was  mearly  a  blinkin'  fish. 
If  I  canna  be  Jessie's  young  man 
I'd  gladly  be  fried  in  a  pan 
And  served  up  on  Jessie's  plate 
For  her  to  put  me  oot-o'-date! 
70 


THE  LOVE-SICK  PETER  KNOX 

"There's  potery  for  ye!"  I  tells  him. 

"Ay,"  says  he,  wi'  a  feble  smile,  "it's 
splendid,  Johnny;  but  it's  no  jist  what 
I  was  requirin'.  Ye  see,  I  was  proposin' 
to  send  her  a  present  for  her  birthday." 

"What  sort  o'  a  present?"  I  speirs. 

"Aw,  I'm  no'  gaun  to  tell  ye  that," 
says  he.  "But  if  ye  write  the  potery 
to  suet  me,  I'll  stand  ye  a  20-packet  o' 
Yellow  Perils." 

"Done!"  says  I.  "Ye'll  be  wantin' 
the  pome  to  gang  wi'  the  present.  Weel, 
ye're  lucky  to  ha'e  Peter  for  a  name.  It 
rymes  wi'  sweeter  and  neater  and  gas- 
meter— 

"Ah,  but  I  dinna  want  ma  name  men- 
tioned," he  says,  "I  want  to  be  an — an — 
What  does  a  gentleman  call  hissel'  when 
he's  ashamed  o'  gi'ein'  a  subscription  to 
the  Kirk  and  the  like?" 

"I  ken  the  word  ye  mean,"  says  I, 
"but  I  couldna  spell  it.  Besides,  the 
71 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


only  word  to  ryme  wi'  it  would  be  hipo- 
pottamus.  Better  jist  call  yersel'  Cupid 
-eh?" 

"Na,  that  wouldna  dae,  niether,"  he 
says,  scratchin'  his  heid.  :<Ye  see,  it's 
like  this.  I  dinna  want  to  tell  her  wha' 
the  sender  is,  but  I  wouldna  mind  her 
guessin'." 

"Well,  then,"  I  says,  "the  only  way  is 
to  put  in  something  aboot  fish  or  poltry. 
That  would  gi'e  her  a  bit  hint,  Peter." 

"But  I'll  no'  ha'e  ye  mak'  a  cod  o'  me," 
he  says  sharp-like,  and  couldna  see  what 
I  laughed  at. 

"I'll  no'  dae  that,  Peter,"  I  tells  him, 
and  after  some  more  talk  it  was  arranged 
that  I  would  ha'e  the  pome  ready  next 
mornin'. 

"Mind,  it's  no'  to  be  funny,"  was  his 
partin'  words. 

"I'm  no'  daft,"  says  I.  "I  want  to 
earn  the  fags." 

72 


THE  LOVE-SICK  PETER  KNOX 

I  kep'  the  hoose  that  night.  When  I 
sat  doon  at  the  fireside  after  ma  tea,  ma 
aunt  said  naething,  but  I  seen  her 
squintin'  at  me  a'  the  time  she  was 
washin'  up.  Later  on  she  cam'  and  sat 
doon  hersel',  wi'  one  o'  her  penny  novels, 
but  she  couldna  read  for  curiosity. 

"Are  ye  no'  weel?"  she  speirs  at  last. 

"I'm  fine,"  says  I. 

"But — but  what  are  ye  daein'  naeth- 
ing for?"  she  says. 

"Keep  your  hair  on,"  says  I,  quite 
pleasent-like.  "I'm  thinkin'." 

"Thinkin'!"  she  cries,  dumfoondered. 

"Ay.  Read  your  story  and  let  me 
ha'e  peace,"  says  I. 

After  a  while  she  dried  up. 

Oh,  it  wasna  so  easy.  Ye  see,  I 
couldna  ha'e  started  writin'  doon  potery 
afore  her,  and  I  had  to  dae  it  in  ma  heid 
like  mental  arithmetic.  I  intended  for  to 
be  extra  early  at  the  shop  in  the  mornin', 
73 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


and  write  it  doon  there.  But  I  wasna  in 
guid  form,  and  after  I  gaed  to  ma  bed, 
what  wi'  ma  aunt's  snoarin'  and  ma  own 
thinkin',  I  didna  sleep  till  near  3  a.m. 
So  I  slep'  in  and  got  a  lecture  frae  P. 
Clark,  but  after  a'  I  dinna  think  the 
pome  was  that  bad.  This  was  it: 

"Oh,  Jessie's  is  the  boniest  face 
I  ever  seen  in  any  plaice. 
Her  nose  is  not  the  least  bit  red, 
Nor  is  the  hares  upon  her  head. 
I  love  her  with  my  heart  and  sole 
And  admire  her  greatly  on  the  hole. 
I  only  wish  I  had  the  pluck 
To  call  her  my  little  darling  duck. 
This  costly  gift  I  send  to  thee, 
And  happy  may  thy  birthday  be! 
Ye'll  never,  never  guess  what  laddie 
Remains  your  loving  Finnan  Haddie" 

I  underlined  a'  the  words  that  had  to 
dae  wi'  Peter's  trade,  and  I  was  pretty 
sure  he  would  be  pleased. 

But  when  I  met  him  on  the  road,  he 

74 


THE  LOVE-SICK  PETER  KNOX 

said  never  a  word  aboot  potery.  And 
when  I  was  for  showin'  it  to  him,  he  says, 
says  he: 

"Oh,  that's  off,  Johnny.  I'll  no'  need 
it  noo." 

"Off!"  says  I,  fair  took  aback. 

"Listen,  and  I'll  tell  ye,"  says  he,  wi'  a 
grone.  "  Last  night  I  spied  her  canoodlin' 
wi'  a  rotten  railway  porter.  So  I  de- 
cided for  to  save  ma  shillin'  and  the  price 
o'  postage." 

"That's  right  enough,"  says  I.  "But 
what  aboot  ma  fags?  Here's  the  pome 
ye  ordered." 

"But  I'm  tellin'  ye  it's  off,"  says 
he. 

Gor,  I  was  angry!  "Then  off  wi'  your 
coat!"  I  says. 

But  he  would  neither  fight  nor  pay,  and 
at  last  I  left  him  in  what  the  book  calls 
high  gudgeon.  I  thought  o'  sendin'  Jes- 
sie the  pome  along  wi'  the  tail  o'  a  kipper 
75 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


I  had  for  ma  tea  that  night.  But  I 
didna:  it  seemed  below  the  belt. 

Next  mornin',  hooever,  Peter  turned 
up  wi'  the  Yellow  Perils. 

"A  bargain's  a  bargain,  Johnny,"  says 
he. 

I  was  delighted  at  his  reformation. 

"We'll  split  them,  Peter,"  says  I. 
"And  there's  the  pome,  if  ye  want  it." 

He  took  it  and  cast  his  eye  ower  it, 
and  groned.  But  after  a  while  he  says, 
says  he: 

"Weel,  weel,  I'll  keep  it  in  the  mean- 
time. The  name  could  easy  be  changed." 


76 


VIII 

REWARDS  OF  INDUSTRY 

1WAS  jist  startin'  for  the  shop,  the 
other  mornin',  when  postie  brought 
ma  aunt  a  letter. 

"Wait!"  says  she.  "This  is  frae  your 
uncle.  He'll  be  here  in  the  afternoon." 

I  suppose  I  let  oot  a  bad  word,  for  she 
cries  sharp-like:  "What  did  ye  say?" 

"  It  was  a  bit  o'  ma  breakfast  got  stuck 
in  ma  neck,"  I  tells  her. 

"Some  fine  mornin'  ye'll  choke,"  she 
says.  "Can  ye  no'  rise  earlier  and  tak' 
time  to  your  meat?" 

"I'll  see  what  can  be  done,"  says  I. 
"Can  I  gang  noo?" 

"Ay,  ye  can  gang  noo;   but,  mind  ye, 
ye're  no'  to  leave  the  hoose  the  night, 
when  your  uncle's  here." 
77 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


"I've  got  an  appintment  at  the 
Cinema,'*  I  says,  to  tease  her,  and 
sloped. 

Ma  uncle  comes  to  Kirkside  once  a 
year.  He's  ma  trustee,  whatever  that 
means;  sma'  guid  to  me,  anyway.  He 
arrives  aboot  4  p.m.  Ma  aunt  feeds  him 
on  scones  and  tea,  and  they  sit  and  crack 
till  6 — :for  the  landry  can  gang  to  blazes 
when  ma  uncle's  visitin'.  I  daresay 
she  tells  him  a'  the  bad  things  I've  done 
durin'  the  year.  At  6.30  she  gi'es  him  a 
fried  fish  tea,  and  he's  a  champion  fish- 
shifter.  After  that  he  sort  o'  dozes  at 
the  fireside,  and  wakens  up  noo  and  then 
to  ask  me  a  question  or  gi'e  me  some 
advice  about  bein'  steady  at  ma  work — 
it  used  to  be  ma  lessons — and  savin'  the 
bawbees.  At  9.30,  she  gi'es  him  toasted 
cheese  and  cocoa,  and  then  he  gangs  to  his 
bed  and  mak's  hissin'  noises  wi'  his  nose 
a'  night  long.  In  the  mornin'  she  gi'es 
78 


REWARDS  OF  INDUSTRY 


him  a  breakfast  that  would  feed  up  an 
elephant,  and  then  he  catches  his  train. 

There's  naething  really  wrong  wi'  ma 
uncle,  excep'  that  he  never  laughs  nor 
smiles.  He's  a  great  big  man  wi'  a 
wee  sma'  heid  wi'  a  few  hairs  stuck 
across  it. 

In  the  back  shop,  that  day,  I  noticed 
P.  Clark  makin'  fiddle-faces  at  oor  col- 
lection o'  empties — biscuit  tins,  jam  jars, 
etc. 

"They're  pilin'  up,  Mr.  Clark,"  I  re- 
marks to  him.  "We'll  soon  ha'e  room 
for  naething  else  in  the  premmises." 

"That's  a  fac',"  says  he;  "but  until 
Miss  Moubray  comes  back  to  her  work 
at  the  coonter  I  canna  hope  to  get  them 
sent  away.  I  hear  she's  improvin',  but 
the  flue's  a  slow  disease." 

"I  could  come  back  at  night  and  pack 
them  up  for  ye,"  says  I. 

"Could  ye?"  he  says  surprised-like. 
79 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


"Easy!"  says  I.  "I'll  come  the  night, 
as  soon  as  I've  had  ma  tea." 

"If  ye  dae  that,"  says  he,  "I'll  no'  for- 
get it,  John.  I'll  be  workin'  here  ma- 
sel'  at  the  books  which  is  terrible  behind. 
Are  ye  sure  ye  can  manage  it?" 

"Can  a  duck  swim?"  says  I,  and  he 
gi'ed  a  bit  laugh,  and  it  was  settled. 

When  I  got  hame  at  night,  they  had 
commenced  their  tea.  Ma  aunt  glow- 
ered at  me,  though  she  kent  I  couldna 
ha'e  managed  earlier.  Ma  uncle  held 
oot  his  hand  and  hoped  he  seen  me  in 
guid  health. 

:'The  same  to  you,"  says  I,  respectful- 
like,  and  gaed  to  ma  place  where  ma  aunt 
had  set  a  piece  o'  fish  I  could  ha'e  put 
in  ma  eye.  But  I  let  it  pass. 

After  a  while  ma  uncle  remarks:  "So 
ye're  in  business  noo,  John." 

I  nodded,  for  I  didna  see  that  there 
was  anything  to  say,  but  ma  aunt  cries: 
80 


REWARDS  OF  INDUSTRY 


"Answer  your  uncle  propper  when  he 
speaks  to  ye,  ye  careless  boy!" 

"I  hope  ye're  industrious,"  says  ma 
uncle  in  a  hurry,  for  he  likes  peace  when 
he's  stokin'. 

"I  doobt  it!"  says  ma  aunt  afore  I 
could  open  ma  mooth. 

I  was  gey  angry.  "Ye'll  hurt  yourseP 
in  a  minute,"  I  tells  her  ablow  ma  breath. 

"Dae  ye  hear  what  he's  sayin'?"  she 
cries  to  ma  uncle. 

"This  is  capital  fish,  Maggie,"  says 
he.  "I  believe  I  could  swallow  another 
grain  or  so." 

"I'm  industrious  enough,"  I  says  to 
him.  "I've  got  to  gang  back  to  the  shop 
the  night." 

"Weel,  weel!"  says  he,  "that's  a  real 
proof  o'  industry." 

"Gang  back  to  the  shop!"  says  ma 
aunt.  I  could  see  she  was  thinkin'  o' 
the  Cinema. 

81 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


"Jist  that,"  says  I,  as  if  I  was  tired  o' 
hearin'  her. 

She  dried  up  then,  and  I  left  afore  they 
had  finished  eatin'. 

"Mind,"  she  cried  after  me,  "ye've 
got  to  be  hame  afore  your  uncle  gangs  to 
his  bed."  I  suppose  she  hadna  the  neck 
to  mention  her  unseemly  suspicions  afore 
him. 

It  wasna  much  fun  packin'  up  the  auld 
empties,  but  it  was  cheerier  nor  sittin' 
dumb  wi'  a  sleepy  uncle  and  a  girny 
aunt.  For  a  while  I  thought  the  empties 
would  never  come  to  an  end  though  I  didna 
want  that  to  happen  ower  early  either. 
I  had  but  the  1  mishap:  when  I  knocked 
doon  a  reglar  Tower  o'  Bable  o'  tins  and 
P.  Clark  near  jumped  oot  o'  his  skin. 
But  he  wasna  angry ;  in  f ac'  he  was  feared 
I  had  hurt  maseF. 

About  9  p.m.  him  and  me  took  a  rest 


REWARDS  OF  INDUSTRY 


and  he  smoked  his  pipe  and  I  had  a  feed 
o'  tea-biscuits  and  lemonade  and  bashed 
dates.  Oh,  it  wasna  \  bad,  and  P. 
Clark  was  cheerier  nor  ever  I  seen  him 
afore.  I  could  ha'e  finished  the  packin' 
at  9.30,  but  I  made  it  last  till  10,  so  as  to 
be  sure  o'  ma  uncle  bein'  fed  up  wi' 
cheese  and  cocoa  and  sleepiness. 

"Ye're  the  right  sort,  John,"  says  P. 
Clark,  when  I  was  leavin',  and  I  tell't 
him  he  was  welcome,  and  meant  it. 

I  expected  some  chat  from  ma  aunt, 
but  though  she  was  snuffy  as  usual,  she 
mearly  said  I'd  best  hurry  to  ma  bed  and 
no'  sleep  in  and  affront  her  afore  ma 
uncle,  which  was  already  commencin'  to 
hiss.  So  off  I  gaed,  gey  pleased  wi' 
masel',  and  never  dreamin'  hoo  much 
better  pleased  I  would  be  in  the  mornin'. 

For   what   dae   ye   think?     Ma   uncle 
cam'  ben  to  his  breakfast  when  I  was 
aboot  to  bolt  for  the  shop. 
83 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


"Jist  a  minute,  John,"  says  he,  vera 
solemn-like.  "Last  night  I  took  a  walk 
to  masel',  and  gaed  up  by  your  em- 
ployer's shop.  Observin'  a  peep-hole  in 
the  door,  I  keeked  in,  and  was  extremely 
gratified  to  behold  your  industry.  In 
fac',  I  was  that  filled  wi'  gratification,  I 
decided  to  show  it  in  more  nor  words. 
Tak'  this,  John,"  says  he,  and  held  oot 
half-a-croon. 

Ye  could  ha'e  knocked  me  doon  wi'  a 
fender.  But  I  cam'  quick  enough  to  ma 
senses,  for  ma  aunt  had  put  forward  her 
claw,  saying:  "I'll  tak'  charge  o'  it  for 
him." 

I  nabbed  it  by  the  skin  o'  its  teeth. 
"Thank  ye,"  I  says  to  ma  uncle.  "Ye're 
a  white  man."  And  somehow  I  was  a 
wee  bit  sorry  I  hadna  finished  packin' 
the  empties  as  soon  as  I  could. 

"But  dinna  be  late  for  your  work," 
says  he,  so  I  got  away. 


REWARDS  OF  INDUSTRY 


When  I  arrived  at  the  shop,  P.  Clark 
says  to  me,  says  he: 

"John,  I've  decided  to  advance  your 
wages  2/." 

This  time  I  hadna  a  word  to  say.  I 
mearly  shook  hands  wi'  him.  Ye  see, 
I'm  no'  used  to  luck,  much  less  rewards 
o'  merit. 

That  day  I  wouldna  ha'e  been  sur- 
prised at  anything — no'  even  if  ma  aunt 
when  I  tell't  her  aboot  ma  rise,  had  stood 
on  her  heid  and  sang  "Rule  Brittania!" 
But  of  course  she  didna  dae  that,  or  any- 
thing like  it. 

"I  hope  ye'll  live  to  deserve  it,  John," 
says  she,  "but  I  ha'e  ma  doobts." 


85 


IX 

A  PIECE  OF  SILVER 

E3T   Monday  was  Black  Monday  in 
the  shop. 

To  begin  wi',  Miss  Moubray,  her 
wi'  the  flue,  was  to  ha'e  come  back  to 
her  work,  and  seein'  it  was  a  terrible  cold 
day  P.  Clark  was  waitin'  for  her  wi'  Oxo 
smokin'  hot.  But  her  mother  arrived  to 
say  she  wasna  so  weel  again,  and  wouldna 
manage  back  for  another  week.  I  got 
the  Oxo,  but  I  was  sorry  for  P.  Clark. 
He's  been  feelin'  the  want  of  Miss  Mou- 
bray, and  so  as  his  corns. 

Then  the  railway  van  delivered  a  case 

o'  Irish  eggs,  which  seemed  to  ha'e  been 

in  a  collision  or  an  earthquake.     It  was 

a  horrid  job,  rescuin'  the  few  survivers 

86 


A  PIECE  OF  SILVER 


and   makin*   them   look  like  respectible 
eggs  again. 

"This  is  the  limit,"  says  P.  Clark; 
but  he  was  wrong  by  a  mile,  for  an  hour 
later  ma  bike  done  a  skid,  and  I  cam' 
doon,  wi'  a  variety  o'  goods  in  the  mud. 
Some  o'  them,  sich  as  ham  and  cheese, 
was  cleanable,  but  things  like  ground 
rice  and  tea-biscuits  could  never  be  made 
to  look  the  same  again. 

It  was  ma  turn  to  talk  aboot  the  limit; 
but  I  was  wrong  likewise,  for  when  I  got 
back  to  the  shop  I  found  P.  Clark  gronin' 
ower  a  bad  2s.  piece  he  had  got  frae  a 
customer,  a  Mrs.  Bardie,  an  awful  prood 
lady  that  puts  flour  on  her  nose,  and  has 
a  gold  tooth,  and  keeps  one  o'  yon  wee 
fancy  sick-like  dogs  that  wouldna  face  a 
black  beetle. 

"Wed,  Mr.  Clark,"  says  I,  "I  trust 
ye're  no'  gaun  to  tak'  this  lyin'  doon." 

"What  can  I  dae?"  says  he. 
87 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


"Dae?"  says  I.      'Tell  her  it's  bad!" 

He  shook  his  heid.  "Na,  na;  that 
would  never  dae,"  he  says.  "She  would 
never  enter  the  shop  again." 

'Ye'll  never  be  a  millionaire  off  cus- 
tomers like  her,"  says  I. 

"Tits,  laddie!"  says  he,  "ye're  takin' 
it  for  granted  that  she  tried  for  to  diddle 
me — a  wealthy  lady  like  her!" 

"I  wouldna  put  it  past  her,"  says  I. 
"Would  an  honest  lady  seek  to  disguise 
her  red  nose?" 

"Ay,  and  an  honest  man  too,  if  he  had 
the  pluck,"  says  P.  Clark.  Then  sud- 
dently  he  laughs.  "Man,  John,  ye're  a 
caution!"  says  he. 

"I  dinna  like  ye  bein'  diddled,"  says  I. 
"  But  her  honesty's  neither  here  nor  there. 
Ye're  2  bob  oot,  and  it's  up  to  her  to 
mak'  it  guid  to  ye.  If  ye  would  leave  the 
job  to  me,  Mr.  Clark— 

"Na,  na,"  he  says  very  quick.     "We'll 
88 


A  PIECE  OF  SILVER 


jist  nail  it  to  the  coonter,  alongside  the 
bad  half-sovereign  I  got  in  the  year  o' 
jubilee,  1897,  and  consider  it  a  bad  debt." 

"Aw,  dinna  dae  that.  Remember  it's 
war  time,"  I  says  to  him.  "If  ye'll 
no'  let  me  gang  to  Mrs.  Bardie,  what  price 
the  Kirk  plate?" 

"John,"  says  he,  drawin'  hisseF  up, 
"would  ye  ha'e  me  diddle  the  Kirk?" 

"The  Kirk's  no'  that  easy  diddled," 
says  I.  "Either  that,  or  the  minister 
and  elders  dinna  ken  bad  money  frae 
guid." 

"What  mak's  ye  say  that?"  he  asks 
sternlike. 

"If  ye  like,  I'll  tell  ye  an  antidote," 
says  I. 

"Proceed,"  says  he. 

"There  was  once  a  wee  village  and  a 

Kirk    and    a    bad    half -croon,"    says    I. 

"And  every  Sabbath  that  same  bad  half- 

croon  gaed  to  the  Kirk,  and  fell  into  the 

89 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


plate.     Noo,    hoo    dae   ye    account    for 
that,  Mr.  Clark?" 

"The  honesty  o'  that  village  must  ha'e 
been  in  a  low  state,  John,"  he  says,  rub- 
bin'  his  chin. 

"But  the  village  only  gi'ed  back  what 
it  got,"  says  I.  "That's  plain  enough." 

"I  suppose,"  he  says,  speakin'  slow, 
"that  sich  a  thing  is  possible,  but  I  con- 
fess I  dinna  see  your  p'int,  ma  lad." 

"The  p'int's  jist  this,"  says  I.  "The 
half -croon  kep'  circulatin',  and  naebody 
was  a  penny  the  worse.  D'ye  no'  see?" 

He  didna  appear  holy  satisfied.  "Kirk- 
side  isna  a  wee  village,"  he  says,  "and 
the  treasurer  o'  ma  Kirk  is  Mr.  McFar- 
lane,  the  banker." 

"Weel,  it'll  be  fine  and  easy  for  him  to 
pass  it  on,"  says  I.  "Jist  you  drop  it  in 
next  Sabbath,  Mr.  Clark,  and  think  nae 
mair  aboot  it.  It's  no'  as  if  ye  was  gettin' 
goods  for  it." 

90 


A  PIECE  OF  SILVER 


But  it  was  nae  use.  He  hadna  the 
nerve.  He  gi'ed  me  a  wee  lecture  and 
put  the  2s.  piece  in  a  tin  he  keeps  stamps 
in,  at  the  back  o'  the  till. 

A  few  days  rolled  by.  He  never  men- 
tioned the  thing,  but  whiles  when  he 
was  workin'  at  his  books  in  the  back 
corner,  I  would  hear  a  wee  dammit,  and 
I  guessed  what  was  hurtin'  him.  And 
then  cam'  Friday. 

As  a  rule,  we're  busy  on  Friday  after- 
noons, but  this  time  it  was  rainin'  some- 
thing terrible,  and  the  street  was  de- 
serted. P.  Clark  was  fiddlin'  at  things 
doon  in  the  cellar,  and  I  was  tyin'  up 
parcels,  when  a  cab  stopped  at  the  door 
and  oot  got  Mrs.  Bardie. 

"By  jings!"  says  I  to  masel',  "if  this 
isna  Providence,  I'm  jiggered!" 

I  scooted  to  the  back  o'  the  shop,  let 
doon  the  trap  door  wi'oot  a  sound,  man- 
aged to  shove  a  case  o'  corned  beef  and 
91 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


a  chest  o'  tea  on  the  top  o'  it,  and  was 
back  behind  the  coonter  afore  ye  could 
ha'e  asked  a  blessin'. 

Mrs.  Bardie  mearly  wanted  a  packet  o' 
Puppy  Biscuits.  She  had  her  ugly  wee 
beast  under  her  arm. 

"What  a  beautiful  little  dog!"  says'  I, 
wi'  the  sort  o'  smile  ye  get  in  a  draper's. 

She  was  quite  pleased.  "  Do  you  know 
about  dogs,  my  boy?"  says  she,  and 
kisses  the  rotten  wee  thing. 

The  sight  near  turned  me  sick,  but  I 
says  most  polite-like,  says  I:  "I  ken  a 
guid  dog  when  I  see  it,  ma'am.  I've 
got  an  uncle  which  is  a  dog  fancier." 
It  was  true  enough,  for  ma  uncle  fancies 
every  dog  he  sees  wants  a  bit  o'  his 
leg.  "Ay,  yours'll  be  gey  valuable,"  I 
says. 

That  pleased  her  still  better,  but  I  had 
to  cut  short  the  conversation  because 
P.  Clark  was  beginnin'  to  knock  at  the 
92 


A  PIECE  OF  SILVER 


trap-door.  I  suppose  he  had  heard  her 
comin'  into  the  shop. 

"That'll  be  6d.,  if  ye  please,"  I  says; 
and  my  heart  was  in  ma  mooth  for  fear 
she  would  put  doon  onything  less  nor 
half-a-croon. 

When  she  put  doon  a  2s.  piece,  I 
thought  I  was  done;  but  I'm  no'  easy 
beat.  I  threw  it  in  the  till  and  made  a 
great  work  o'  huntin'  for  change.  Then 
I  says  to  her,  says  I : 

"We're  short  o'  sma'  change  the  day, 
ma'am.  If  ye  could  gi'e  me  half-a-croon, 
I  could  manage  it."  And  I  gi'ed  her 
back  her  2s.  piece — the  bad  one. 

When  she  put  doon  half-a-croon,  I 
was  surer  nor  ever  it  was  Providence. 

As  soon  as  she  shifted  herseP  I  gaed 
and  let  P.  Clark  oot.  He  wasna  extra 
pleased. 

"Ye'll  laugh  in  a  minute,  Mr.  Clark," 
says  I. 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


But  he  didna.  He  wagged  his  held  and 
rubbed  his  nose,  and  after  a  while  he  says 
solemn-like,  says  he: 

"Surely  it's  plain  to  ye  noo  that  Mrs. 
Bardie  didna  diddle  me  wittin'ly.  But 
you,  John,  was  aware  the  money  was 
bad,  and  ye  diddled  her  deliberately.  So 
afore  ye  finish  here  the  night,  ye'll  gang 
to  her  hoose  wi'  a  genuine  2s.  piece,  and 
get  back  the  bad  one.  Ye'll  explain  that 
I  had  omitted  to  nail  it  to  the  coonter. 
Hold  your  tongue !"  says  he.  "What  I 
ha'e  said  I  ha'e  said." 

Weel,  I  hope  I  ken  when  a  man's  in 
earnest,  and  when  I'm  beat.  Aboot 
6  p.m.  I  gaed  to  Mrs.  Bardie's  hoose,  wi' 
ma  tail  between  ma  legs. 

But  ye  never  ken  your  luck.  I  cam* 
back  wavin'  it  on  high. 

"Weel,  John,"  says  P.  Clark,  lookin' 
kind  through  his  specs,  "ye've  done  your 
disagreeable  duty,  and  I'll  say  nae  mair 
94 


A  PIECE  OF  SILVER 


excep'  to  repeat  to  ye  that  honesty's  the 
best  policy." 

"It  is  that,"  says  I,  and  lays  2s.  on 
the  coonter. 

"Oh,"  he  cries,  "but  this  is  a  guid  one!" 

"It  is,"  says  I.  "She  couldna  mind 
where  she  had  spent  the  bad  one." 

"Dear,  dear!"  says  he. 

"And  she  gi'ed  me  a  bob  to  masel'," 
says  I. 


95 


X 

MlSS   MOUBRAY 

MISS    MOUBRAY'S    back  at   the 
coonter  again  at  last.  She  turned 
up     unexpected    on    Thursday, 
aboot  10  p.m.,  and  P.  Clark  was  terrible 
glad  to  see  her.      He  burnt   his   fingers 
bilin'  water  on  the  gas-ring  to  mak'  an 
Oxo  for  her. 

I  canna  say  I  seen  a  great  difference 
on  her,  considerin'  she'd  had  the  mumps, 
measels  and  flue  wi'  only  a  fortnight  be- 
twixt each.  She's  no'  a  bad  lookin'  girl, 
if  ye  like  them  black-haired  and  skinny. 
At  the  beginnin'  P.  Clark  warned  me  she 
was  a  superior  sort  o'  girl,  and  I'd  better 
no'  tak'  libberties  wi'  her.  I  wondered 
what  he  took  me  for.  Of  course  he  kens 
me  better  noo. 

96 


MISS  MOUBRAY 


While  P.  Clark  was  busy  burnin'  his 
fingers  I  had  a  bit  crack  wi'  her. 

"It's  you  for  the  diseases,"  says  I, 
passin'  her  a  fig,  jist  to  be  upsides 
wi'  Clark.  "But  I  see  there's  life  in  the 
auld  dog  yet." 

She  smiled.  She's  got  bonny  teeth. 
I  thought  they  was  false  till  I  once  tried 
her  wi'  a  bit  o'  extra  tough  toffy. 

"I'm  glad  to  be  back,  Johnny,"  she 
says,  "but  I've  had  an  awful  bad  time, 
and  I'm  not  feeling  up  to  much  yet,  so  I 
hope  you'll  not  start  tormenting  me  all  at 
once." 

"When  did  I  ever  torment  ye?"  says 
I.  I  never  done  anything  to  her  excep' 
put  rice  in  her  bumberstick  and  pin 
a  label  wi'  "Real  Honey"  on  it  to 
her  back,  when  she  was  gaun  for  her 
dinner. 

"Well,  we'll  let  bygones  be  ditto," 
says  she,  nibblin'  at  the  fig.  "How 
97 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


have  you  and  Mr.   Clark  been  getting 
along  all  those  weeks  without  me?" 

"Bearin'  up  and  nae  mair,"  says  I. 
"His  corns  has  been  missin'  ye,  but  ye'll 
be  glad  to  hear  he  got  quit  o'  yon  aged 
Gorgonzola." 

"Not  sold! "  she  cries. 

"  It  might  ha'e  been  if  he  hadna  drooned 
it  in  the  river  in  dispair,"  says  I. 

She  laughed  till  I  thought  the  fig  had 
gaed  the  wrong  road.  But  jist  then  P. 
Clark  cam'  forward  wi'  the  Oxo,  lookin' 
as  bashful  as  if  he  was  gaun  to  dae  a 
recitation. 

If  he  was  younger,  I  would  say  he  was 
sweet  on  Miss  Moubray,  but  I  ken  he 
pets  her  mearly  because  shop  assistants 
is  that  scarse  at  present,  though  she's 
gi'ed  him  dash  little  assistance  so  far. 
Hooever,  we  canna  blame  her  for  the 
mumps,  &c.  And  she  was  rael  nice  to 
him  aboot  the  Oxo. 

98 


MISS  MOUBRAY 


"Oh,  Mr.  Clark,"  she  says,  "it's  far, 
far  too  kind  of  you!" 

"Not  at  all,"  says  he  aboot  J  a  dozen 
times,  as  red  as  a  penny  stamp.  "We've 
a'  got  to  tak'  care  o'  oor  healths  in  these 
times.  See  and  no'  overtax  your  strength, 
Miss  Moubray;  if  ye  feel  wearied,  be 
sure  and  let  me  ken."  He  turned  and 
left  her  as  if  he  was  ashamed  o'  hissel'. 

"And  how's  business,  Johnny?"  she 
asks  me. 

"Gey  rotten,"  I  tells  her.  "Ye'll  be 
kep'  busy  learnin'  the  new  prices  o'  goods 
we  canna  get,  and  tellin'  the  customers 
we're  oot  o'  this,  that  and  the  other 
thing.  Afore  long,  Mr.  Clark  says,  a 
grocer'll  ha'e  nae  mair  variety  in  his  shop 
nor  an  undertaker.  Oh,  your  hair's 
comin'  doon,  Miss  Moubray!  At  least 
there's  a  wee  tail  thing  hangin'  oot  o' 
your  bun." 

"Is  there?"  says  she,  layin'  the  cup  on 
99 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


the  coonter  and  puttin'  up  both  her 
hands. 

"  Hullo ! "  says  I.  "  That's  a  braw  new 
ring  ye've  gotten!  Are  ye  engaged?" 

She  turned  the  colour  o'  tinned  salmon 
and  gi'ed  a  wee  laugh. 

"Yes,"  says  she.  "I'm  engaged, 
Johnny." 

"Wonders'll  never  cease!"  says  I, 
though  it  wasna  jist  what  I  had  meant 
to  remark.  "Has  he  named  the  happy 
day?" 

"Nonsense!"  says  she.  "It  won't  be 
till  the  war's  over.  You  see,  he's  on 
active  service." 

"Guid  for  him!"  I  says.  "Then  he 
would  propose  to  ye  when  he  was  on 
leave,  Miss  Moubray?" 

She  nodded,  gettin'  pink  again. 

"When  did  it  happen?"  I  asks  her, 
respectful-like. 

"Nearly  3  months  ago,  Johnny,"  she 
100 


MISS  MOUBRAY 


replies.     "Now  it's  high  time  I  was  get- 
ting to  work." 

"  Wait  a  minute,"  says  I.  "  It  wouldna 
be  when  ye  had  the  mumps — eh?" 

"No,  just  before,"  says  she. 

"Ye've  had  a  narrow  escape,"  says  I. 

She  seemed  to  be  sort  o'  annoyed,  but 
jist  then  a  customer  cam'  in. 

I  retired  to  the  back  where  P.  Clark 
was  sittin'  at  his  desk,  makin'  faces  at  an 
account  in  his  ledger. 

"Mr.  Clark,"  says  I,  "I've  news  for  ye. 
Miss  Moubray's  for  gettin'  married." 

He  jamp  as  if  I  had  put  the  ham  knife 
in  him. 

"Ma  goodness!"  he  cries.  "Mumps, 
measels,  inflenuzia — and  noo  marriage, 
which  is  fatle!  Where  in  Kirkside  will  I 
get  another  assistant?"  He  grones  some- 
thing terrible. 

"Cheer  up!"  says  I.     "It's  no  imme- 
diate— no'  till  the  war's  by." 
101 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


"Oh,"  says  he,  wipin'  the  sweat  frae 
his  brow,  "ye  might  ha'e  said  that  at 
first,  John.  Ye  gi'ed  me  a  turn.  Aweel, 
I  suppose  I'll  ha'e  to  congratulate  her." 

Later  on  I  heard  him  daein'  it,  and 
then  he  got  her  intended's  name  and 
address,  and  wrote  doon  a  list  o'  guid 
things  to  send  to  him,  graetis.  I'm  no* 
jellous,  but  I  couldna  help  wonderin' 
what  /  would  ha'e  got  if  I  had  come  back 
to  the  shop  after  3  months  o'  mumps,  etc. 
A  nice  kick  done  up  in  a  lovely  sack,  I 
suppose!  A'  the  same,  P.  Clark's  no'  a 
bad  chap. 

After  hearin'  him  talk  to  her,  I  felt 
it  was  up  to  me  to  dae  something  in  the 
congrat  line  likewise;  besides,  I  wanted 
to  show  her  I  had  had  nae  intentions  o' 
hurtin'  her  feelin's  aboot  the  mumps. 
So  I  thought  I  would  write  her  a  bit 
potery  sutiable  to  the  lucky  event. 

I  hurried  through  ma  afternoon  deliv- 
102 


MISS  MOUBRAY 


cries,  and  managed  to  get  peace  and 
quietness  for  20  minutes  or  so  in  Mrs. 
McGomeril's  hen-hoose.  Her  hens  is  de- 
funk  owin'  to  a  party  feedin'  them  on 
poisoned  barley  for  wakenin'  him  ower 
early  in  the  mornin'.  The  case  is  gaun 
to  the  court,  I  hear,  and  everybody  in 
Kirkside  is  gettin'  ready  to  laugh. 

Weel,  this  is  the  pome.     I  think  Miss 
Moubray  was  pleased  wi'  it  on  the  hole. 

To  Miss  K.  MOUBRAY,  ON  HER  PLIGHT  OF  TROTH 

"  I'm  pleased  to  hear  ye've  got  a  lad, 

For  lads  is  scarse  the  noo. 
I  winna  speir  if  you  chased  him 

Or  he  ran  after  you. 
The  ring  ye've  gotten  sure  enough, 

And  so  ye  needna  fash — 
It  must  ha'e  cost  a  pound,  which  proves 

Ye  really  are  his  mash. 
Cheer  up !  and  think  o'  love  instead 

0'  measels,  mumps  and  flue; 
Even  though  ye  catch  the  hoopin'  cough, 

I've  nae  doobt  he'll  keep  true. 
103 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


I  hope  ye'll  live  100  years 
And  be  a  blushin'  bride, 

And  ha'e  a  cake  as  big's  yoursel', 
Wi'  sugar  (real)  ootside. 

And  I  hope  ye'll  no'  forget  to  send 
A  lump  to  Johnny  Pryde." 


104 


XI 

DOLLY  TOSH 

GENTILE  reader,  was  ye  ever  chased 
by  a  girl?     If  so,  I  expec'  ye  would 
feel  as  I  dae  aboot  it.     It's  nice 
enough  for  a  wee  while,  but  ye  soon  get 
fed  up  and  would  preffer  a  mad  bull  after 
ye — eh? 

The  girl  that's  chasin'  me  the  noo  is 
Dolly  Tosh.  She  was  at  the  school  wi' 
me,  but  was  twa  classes  above  me,  and 
I  never  had  ony  truck  wi'  her  excep'  to 
put  oot  ma  tongue  at  her  noo  and  then. 
I  mind  she  fancied  hersel'  for  a  beauty, 
and  I'll  grant  ye  I've  seen  uglier  nor  her 
in  Kirkside.  After  she  left  the  school 
she  was  wi'  Samson  the  draper  for  a 
couple  o'  years,  and  then,  aboot  6  month 
105 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


back,  she  gaed  into  munitions  at  Barry- 
field,  a  long  road  frae  here.  Noo  she's 
back  in  Kirkside  again,  as  large  as  life, 
wi'  a  pocketful  o'  money,  tellin'  every- 
body she's  suspended  for  a  month 
or  so. 

She's  a  great  swell,  wi'  her  fancy 
stockins  and  tricky  shoes  and  fur  tippet, 
etc.  She  put  her  hair  up  when  she  went 
to  the  munitions,  but  she  has  become  a 
flapper  again,  for  her  mother  says  she 
couldna  ha'e  her  gang  aboot  Kirkside  in 
sich  short  dresses,  and  Dolly  would  rather 
gang  back  to  her  pigtail  nor  be  oot  o'  the 
fashion.  Folk  turn  to  look  at  her  on  the 
street,  but  she  doesna  mind;  in  fac',  I 
think  she  preffers  it. 

The  first  time  I  met  her  was  an  after- 
noon on  the  Scriven  road.  We  ha'e  jist 
the  1  customer  oot  that  way,  but  she's 
a  guid  one,  and  I  was  pushin'  ma  bike 
up  the  brae  wi'  a  heavy  load  o'  best  gro- 
106 


DOLLY  TOSH 


ceries,  when  I  spied  Dolly  Tosh  sittin' 
on  a  milestone,  smokin'  a  fag.  I  didna 
expec'  she  would  speak,  but— 

"  Hullo,  Johnny  Pryde,"  says  she,  "dae 
ye  no'  remember  me?" 

"Fine,"  says  I,  "in  spite  o'  your  dis- 
guise." 

"But  ye  was  for  passin'  me  by,"  says 
she.  "  Maybe  ye're  bashful  ?  " 

"I  dinna  think  that  would  be  ony  use," 
says  I.  "  Hoo  are  ye  keepin' ?  " 

"Fine,"  says  she,  and  asks  where  I  was 
bound  for.  "I'll  gi'e  ye  a  convoy,  if  ye 
like,"  she  says. 

"I  dinna  mind,"  says  I,  for  I  was  keen 
on  hearin'  aboot  the  munitions,  and  I 
wasna  likely  to  meet  many  folk  on  that 
road.  "Hoo  are  ye  gettin'  on,  Dolly?" 
I  enquires  frien'ly-like. 

"Oh,  jist  aboot  killed  wi'  excitement, 
I  don't  think,"  she  says.  "I'm  fed  up 
wi'  Kirkside  already.  It's  deidly  dull. 
107 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


Let's  ha'e  some  refreshments."  She 
opened  her  wee  bag  and  offered  me  a 
fag  and  then  sweeties — the  sort  o'  sweet- 
ies ye  see  in  picturs% 

"Ma  goodness!"  I  exclaims,  "ye  didna 
buy  them  at  6d.  the  Ib." 

She  laughed  and  shoved  the  poke  at 
me.  "If  ye  like  them,  tak'  the  lot,"  says 
she. 

I  was  that  surprised,  I  took  them,  no' 
forgettin'  to  thank  her. 

Weel,  she  walked  a'  the  way  wi'  me, 
and  back  again,  and  we  parted  jist  oot- 
side  the  toon.  She  had  telPt  me  a  lot 
aboot  munitions,  and  I  could  see  she  had 
been  daein'  her  bit.  I  thought  she 
wasna  J  a  bad  sort,  and  I  took  the  lec- 
ture I  got  frae  P.  Clark  for  bein'  late 
wi'oot  a  murmur. 

Oh,  but  I  was  green!  It  wasna  till  I 
met  her  for  the  4th  time  on  the  Scriven 
road  that  I  seen  anything  peaculier  in 
108 


DOLLY  TOSH 


her  bein'  there.  For  I  had  never  really 
believed  that  a  girl  would  chase  a  man, 
unless  she  was  gettin'  up  in  years,  like 
ma  aunt. 

But  mind  ye,  I'm  no'  conceited.  I 
dinna  set  up  to  be  an  Apolonaris,  or  what- 
ever they  called  the  Roman  chap  that 
was  sich  a  lady-killer  in  his  day.  I  ken 
fine  it's  a'  entirely  dew  to  the  great  scar- 
sety  o'  young  single  men  in  Kirkside  the 
noo.  In  fac',  there's  practically  nae 
choice  for  a  girl  like  Dolly  Tosh  excep' 
between  a  railway  porter  and  Peter  Knox 
and  maseP.  And  the  porter  has  a  game 
leg  and  a  stammer,  and  Peter's  appren- 
ticed to  a  fish-monger,  which  is  an  honest 
trade,  but  niffy,  and  I'm  jist  ordinary — 
so  there  ye  are!  I  ken  she  wouldna  look 
at  me  in  peace  time,  and  I'm  ower  young 
for  her,  anyway;  but  a'  that  doesna 
mak'  it  any  better  for  me. 

I  tell  ye,  I  got  the  cauld  shivers  when  I 
109 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


seen  what  was  up.  It  wasna  what  she 
said;  it  was  the  way  she  kep'  squintin' 
at  me — oh,  it  was  fair  sickenin'! — as 
much  as  to  say:  "Will  ye  be  ma  mash?" 
Hoo  I  wished  I  had  never  ta'en  her 
sweeties  and  fags!  But  for  that  I  could 
ha'e  mounted  ma  bike  and  left  her  to 
whistle.  But  I  never  done  a  dirty  mean 
thing  if  I  could  help  it. 

This  time  she  didna  leave  me  ootside 
the  toon;  na!  she  cam'  right  to  the  shop 
door  wi'  me!  I  wasna  cauld  then!  I 
was  sweatin'!  Fortunitely  P.  Clark 
didna  notice  anything.  But  the  next 
mornin'  she  nabbed  me  when  I  was  gaun 
roun'  for  orders,  and  said  she  was  gaun  to 
get  her  mother  to  get  her  groceries  frae 
Clark,  so  as  she  would  be  able  to  drop 
into  the  shop  frequent-like.  Of  course  I 
couldna  tell  her  that  P.  Clark  kep'  rotten 
bad  stuff.  I  jist  had  to  try  and  look  glad 
to  hear  it. 

110 


DOLLY  TOSH 


But  the  worst  happened  yesterday — 
on  the  Scriven  road  again.  I  had  been 
tryin'  to  let  her  see  that  I  wasna  keen  on 
her  comp'ny,  but  ma  hints  was  nae  mair 
to  her  nor  a  split  pea  to  a  rinocerious. 
She  kep'  on  bein'  as  sweet  as  treacle,  and 
every  noo  and  then  she  would  dunt 
against  me  as  if  by  accident.  And  sud- 
dently  she  gi'ed  ma  arm  a  squeeze  and 
says,  says  she: 

"Johnny,  lad!  what  price  the  pictur' 
hoose  for  you  and  me  the  night?" 

"Oh,  I'm  sorry,"  says  I,  "but  I'm  hard 
up  the  noo.  I  really  canna  afford  it." 
It  wasna  exac'ly  the  truth,  but  I  was 
gettin'  desprate. 

"  Never  you  heed  aboot  that,  Johnny," 
says  she,  and  her  voice  was  softer  nor 
the  cauld  cream  ye  get  frae  the  druggist. 
"  Jist  you  leave  it  to  me." 

:<Ye  mean  that  you'll  pay?"  says  I, 
feelin'  ma  face  hot. 

Ill 


"It'll  be  ma  funeral,"  says  she,  wi'  a 
laugh. 

Weel,  it's  no'  so  easy  to  look  insulted 
as  to  feel  it;  it's  easier  to  look  like  a  sheep. 
But  I  done  ma  best  to  show  her  I  didn't 
like  it.  In  fac',  I  tried  to  get  up  a  quar- 
rel. But  she  wouldna  ha'e  that. 

"Dinna  be  so  nasty  and  prood,"  says 
she. 

"I  never  yet  let  a  girl  stand  treat," 
says  I,  "and  I'm  no'  gaun  to  begin  noo. 
Thank  ye  a'  the  same." 

:'Ye've  hurt  ma  finest  feelin's,"  says 
she,  and  wi'  that  she  started  greetin'.  I 
canna  think  where  she  got  the  tears,  but 
they  cam'  oot  right  enough.  And  the 
scent  on  her  hanky  was  like  to  knock  me 
doon. 

"Oh,  stop  it!"  says  I,  and  then  I  seen 
some  folk  comin'  along  the  road.  "Stop 
it,  and  I'll  tak'  ye  to  the  pictur'  hoose 
next  week." 

112 


DOLLY  TOSH 


"Is  that  a  promise?"  she  cries,  bio  win' 
her  nose. 

"Ay,"  says  I.  "So  long."  And  I  got 
on  ma  bike  and  left  her. 

What  am  I  to  dae?  I  canna  break  ma 
word,  and  it  doesna  seem  worth  while 
breakin'  ma  neck.  I  suppose  it'll  ha'e 
to  be  the  Is.  seats.  Aweel,  after  next 
week  I'm  finished  wi'  women! 


113 


XII 

DOLLY  AGAIN 

THE  weather  was  rotten  for  the  next 
2  or  3  days,  but  I  wasna  sorry,  for 
it  kep'  Dolty  Tosh  off  the  Scriven 
road.  Unfortunitely  it  had  got  aboot  that 
I  had  been  seen  wi'  her  there,  and  on  Mon- 
day mornin',  when  we  was  gaun  roun'  for 
orders,  Peter  Knox,  him  that  I  wrote  the 
potery  for,  had  the  neck  to  speak  aboot 
Dolly.  Though  he's  learnin'  to  be  a  fish- 
monger he's  a  silly  lovey-dovey  sort  o* 
chap,  and  he  didna  try  to  be  funny.  But 
that  made  it  a'  the  worse. 

"Are  ye  askin'  for  a  bat  on  the  nose?" 
says  I,  gey  angry. 

"True  love  has  nae thing  to  be  ashamed 
o',  Johnny,"   says  he.      'Ye  needna  be 
afraid  I'll  laugh  at  ye." 
114 


DOLLY  AGAIN 


"Ye  wouldna  laugh  twice,"  says  I. 

"Come,  come,"  says  he,  as  if  he  was  a 
grandfayther.  "I  ken  what  it  is.  Ye 
can  confide  in  me,  and  I'll  never  betray 

ye." 

"Awa'  and  eat  grass!"  says  I.  "If  ye 
canna  talk  sense,  dry  up." 

He  dried  up,  or  it  would  ha'e  been  the 
worse  for  him. 

I  can  tell  ye,  I  was  annoyed  at  the 
thing  becomin'  a  public  scandle,  and  I 
felt  to  tak'  the  girl  to  the  pictur'  hoose 
would  simply  put  the  lid  on.  I  would 
never  hear  the  end  o'  it.  Still,  I  was 
bound  to  keep  ma  promise  to  her.  Ma 
only  hope  was  that  she  would  be  called 
back  quick  to  the  munitions  at  Barry- 
field.  But  no  sich  luck  for  me. 

When  I  got  hame  frae  the  shop  on 

Tuesday  night,  I  seen  that  ma  aunt  had 

got  her  monkey  up.     That  didna  excite 

me,  for  it's  oftener  up  nor  doon.     She 

115 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


stopped  in  the  middle  o'  fillin'  the  tea- 
pot, and  p'inted  to  a  postcard  on  the 
mantlepeice.  It  was  addressed  to  me. 

"What's  that?"  says  she. 

"It  looks  liker  a  postcard  nor  a  cheese, 
does  it  no'?"  says  I,  takin'  it  doon.  It 
had  the  mug  o'  a  play-actress  on  the  back 
and  writin'  that  said:  "Tuesday  night 
will  suet  me  fine.  I'll  be  there  at  7.30 — 
D.  T." 

There's  nae  use  pretendin'  it  didna  gi'e 
me  a  shake-up;  but  I  managed  to  gi'e  a 
nod  as  much  as  to  say  I  had  expected  the 
card,  and  put  it  in  ma  pocket. 

"Wha's  D.  T.?"  yells  ma  aunt. 

"Eh?"  says  I,  puttin'  ma  hand  to  ma 
ear. 

"Oh,  I  read  your  card,"  says  she. 
"Postcards  is  open  to  be  read." 

"So  they  are,"  says  I.  "I  hope  ye 
enjoyed  the  pretty  pictur'." 

"Wha's  D.  T.?"  she  yells  again. 
116 


DOLLY  AGAIN 


"Ye're  lettin'  the  water  gang  off  the 
boil,"  I  says. 

"Answer  me!"  says  she. 

"Ye  can  ha'e  13  guesses  for  a  Is.," 
says  I. 

If  she  had  asked  me  nice-like  I  might 
ha'e  let  her  guess  free  o'  charge. 

I  thought  I  was  never  gaun  to  get  ma 
tea  that  night,  and  I  had  a  terrible  rush 
to  get  tidied  up  for  the  rotten  event.  I 
tried  to  sneak  oot  o'  the  hoose,  but  she 
nabbed  me. 

"Whaur  are  ye  gaun,  John?"  says  she. 

"Oot,"  says  I. 

"What  for  ha'e  ye  got  on  yer  Sabbath 
tie?"  says  she. 

"To  let  it  see  what  Tuesda's  like." 
And  to  tease  her  I  says:  :'Ye  needna 
wait  up  for  me.  I'll  be  hame  aboot  3 
g.m." 

"If  ye're  a  second  after  ten,  ye'll  find 
the  door  bolted  to  ye." 
117 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


Weel,  I'll  allow  she  had  me  that 
time. 

I  got  to  the  pictur  hoose  at  7.30,  and 
after  aboot  20  minutes  or  so  Dolly  turned 
up.  She  was  dressed  to  kill  at  1000  yds., 
and  I  was  glad  to  get  her  into  the  dark 
inside. 

"Was  ye  surprised  to  get  ma  note, 
Johnny?"  she  whispers. 

"I'm  no'  that  easy  surprised,"  I  an- 
swered. 

"Was  ye  glad?"  says  she. 

My!  it  tak's  a  girl  to  ask  a  real  stupid 
question.  I  didna  want  to  tell  a  rank 
falsehood,  and  yet  I  didna  want  to  hurt 
her  feelin's. 

"What  dae  ye  think?"  says  I.  Then 
I  put  a  big  poke  o'  sweeties — P.  Clark 
had  let  me  ha'e  them  at  cost — on  her  lap 
and  telPt  her  to  get  busy. 

"Oh,  Johnny,  ye're  ower  kind,"  she 
says,  and  gi'ed  ma  hand  a  squeeze. 
118 


DOLLY  AGAIN 


"Stop  it,"  says  I.  "Pay  attention  to 
your  jujubes  and  the  pictur's." 

"The  pictur's  is  putrid,"  says  she. 
"I'm  vexed  I  was  late,  Johnny,  but  I 
was  packin'  up.  I'm  gaun  back  to  the 
munitions  in  the  mornin'." 

"Are  ye?"  says  I 

"Are  ye  sorry?"  says  she. 

"So,  so,"  says  I.     "Ye're  no'  eatin'." 

"Ye  can  keep  your  jujubes,"  she  says, 
sort  o'  angry -like.  "I  wish  I  hadna  came 
the  night." 

"Dinna  be  a  silly  goat,"  says  I,  as  kind 
as  I  could.  I  was  perspiring  like  1  o'clock. 

"I  believe  ye  hate  me,"  says  she. 

"Hate  ye!  Dae  ye  think  I  would  ha'e 
burst  a  shillin'  on  ye  if  I  had  hated  ye?" 
says  I.  "Cheer  up  and  behave  yoursel', 
Dolly." 

But  in  the  end  I  had  to  tak'  her  hand 
to  keep  her  frae  greetin'.     I  never  seen 
sich  a  girl  for  softness. 
119 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


We  didna  talk  much  after  that,  but  she 
punished  the  jujubes.  I  could  tell  when 
she  was  eatin'  a  pink  one  by  the  smell  o* 
her  breath,  which  whiles  tickled  ma  ear. 
I  was  feart  to  move  in  case  she  would  be 
offended,  but  at  last  I  got  pins  and 
needles  in  ma  arm  and  had  to  ask  her  to 
shift  hersel'.  She  made  me  swop  seats 
wi'  her.  I  canna  mind  the  names  o'  the 
pictur's,  but  they  was  extreamly  fine. 

At  9.30  she  did  surprise  me  wi'  say  in' 
it  was  time  to  move. 

"Bide  a  wee,"  says  I.  I  canna  tell  ye 
what  made  me  say  it. 

"We've  got  to  gang  home  for  hot  sup- 
per," says  she.  "Ma  mother's  expectin' 
ye,  Johnny." 

"Me?"  says  I.     "Hot  supper!" 

"Dinna  refuse,"  says  she.  "It's  ma 
last  night  at  hame.  We  may  never  meet 
again." 

Of  course  I  couldna  tell  her  I  would  be 
120 


DOLLY  AGAIN 


locked  out  if  I  was  hame  later  nor  ten. 
But  I  didna  see  hoo  I  was  to  get  the  hot 
supper  on  board  afore  that  time.  I 
wished  she  had  spoke  earlier,  but  it 
wouldna  ha'e  been  the  thing  to  say  that. 

"Come  on,"  says  she,  gettin'  up. 
"Mother's  made  one  o'  her  special  steak 
puddin's." 

Hoo  could  I  refuse?  Jist  then  I  didna 
care  a  bashed  date  if  I  had  to  walk  the 
streets  a'  night. 

We  left  the  pictur'  hoose.  It  was  pitch 
dark,  and  she  took  ma  arm.  I  didna 
objec'.  It  pleased  her  and  didna  hurt 
me.  Besides,  I've  seen  uglier  nor  Dolly 
Tosh. 

I  wasna  sorry  I  gaed  to  her  hoose.  Her 
mother  was  as  nice  as  nice,  and  her 
fayther  was  fine  and  hearty,  and  her  wee 
sisters  and  brothers  had  naething  wrong 
wi'  them.  And  the  puddin'  was  fair 
champion.  I'll  never  see  its  like  again. 
121 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


It  was  11.15  p.m.  when  I  minded  where 
I  was.  I  was  sorry  to  gang.  Dolly  cam* 
to  the  door  wi'  me.  She  put  oot  the  gas 
by  mistake.  I  believe  I  kissed  her — the 
first  time  I  ever  done  sich  a  thing.  She 
said  she  would  write. 

It  was  pourin'  wi'  rain  when  I  got  oot, 
and  I  was  drooked  afore  I  won  hame. 
I  had  decided  to  get  in  at  ma  window  if 
I  could  reach  it.  I  reached  it  by  standin' 
on  an  auld  tattie  barrel  turned  upsy- 
doon;  but  jist  when  I  had  shifted  the 
catch  wi'  ma  knife,  the  bottom  broke  and 
I  fell  into  the  barrel  and  rolled  doon  the 
street.  I  was  a  sight  when  I  got  oot, 
and  feelin'  gay  sore  forbye.  I  needna 
describe  a'  I  suffered,  but  I  got  in  at  the 
window  at  last. 

Ma  aunt  cried  to  me  from  her  bed, 
say  in' : 

"Why  did  ye  no'  try  the  door,  John? 
I  left  it  open." 

122 


XIII 

THE  PROFITEER 

IT'S  no'  often  P.  Clark  loses  his  hair, 
but  he  fairly  let  it  fly  the  other 
mornin'.  Miss  Moubray's  young 
man  was  hame  on  short  leave,  and  though 
she  hadna  been  at  her  work  a  fortnight 
after  her  mumps,  &c.,  P.  Clark  said  she 
could  tak'  a  day  off  for  canoodlin'  pur- 
poses— I'm  pretty  sure  that's  what  he 
meant,  onyway.  I  would  ha'e  to  break 
ma  neck  afore  he  would  offer  me  a  day 
off!  That's  the  worst  of  being  undis- 
pensable. 

Weel,  we  hadna  long  opened  the  shop, 

when  P.  Clark  remembered  a  case  in  the 

cellar  that  had  to  be  unpacked — some 

new  patent  dissipated  egg  conglabbera- 

123 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


tion  that  the  public  was  fallin'  over  their 
feet  to  buy.  It  was  in  packets,  wi'  a 
pictur'  o'  a  singin'  hen  on  the  ootside.  I 
wanted  to  see  what  the  stuff  was  like, 
but  P.  Clark  refused  to  let  me  open  it  in 
his  shop.  He  gi'ed  me  a  packet  for  ma 
aunt  to  try,  but  she's  a  suspicious  body, 
and  she's  keepin'  it  till  she  has  a  visiter. 
She's  no'  like  the  general  public,  which'll 
buy  onything  if  it's  in  a  fancy  enough 
packet. 

But  I  disgress,  as  the  man  said  in  the 
dry  book  I  was  tryin'  to  read  the  other 
Sabbath. 

P  Clark  was  hammerin'  awa'  doon 
below,  and  I  was  gettin'  a  few  goods  ready 
for  the  early  delivery,  when  Mrs.  Turpie 
cam'  into  the  shop.  I've  often  said  to 
P.  Clark  that  Mrs.  Turpie's  custom 
wasna  worth  the  trouble  it  cost  us,  but 
he  wouldna  listen  to  me.  "We  canna 
choose  oor  customers,  John,"  says  he; 
124 


THE  PROFITEER 


"A*  we  can  dae  is  to  treat  everybody  wi' 
curtsey  and  tack."  Then  he  asks  me  if 
I  kent  what  tack  was.  Of  course  I  did. 
Tack  is  mearly  a  genteel  name  for  coddin'. 

As  soon  as  I  got  behind  the  cbonter,  I 
seen  that  Mrs.  Turpie  was  gaun  to  gi'e 
trouble,  for  her  wee  nose  was  extra  red, 
and  she  kep'  movin'  her  lips  withoot 
openin'  her  mooth. 

"  Mornin',"  says  I,  polite-like.  "  Some- 
thing ye  want  sent,  Mrs.  Turpie?" 

She  didna  speak,  but  laid  doon  an  a/c 
and  some  silver,  wi'  a  smack,  on  the 
counter. 

"Thank  ye,"  says  I,  and  got  forward 
the  pen  and  ink.  Then  I  took  a  squint 
at  the  a/c— 8/10.  Then  I  coonted  the 
cash — 8  bob — and  put  it  back  on  the 
coonter,  spread  oot  so  as  she  could  see  it. 
Our  motto  is;  Nae  discoont  excep'  on 
large  a/cs,  when  we  canna  help  it. 

I  waited,  wi'  ma  gaze  modestly  in- 
125 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


verted,  as  ma  aunt's  penny  novels  would 
say,  but  excep'  for  a  sort  o'  wee  wheeze 
wi'  her  nose  she  made  never  a  sound. 

So  at  last  I  looked  at  her.  She  looked 
back  at  me,  and  her  face  seemed  to  grow 
bigger  and  bigger,  and  her  nose  wee-er 
and  wee-er,  till  it  was  like  a  cherry  on  a 
cake  o'  long,  long  ago. 

After  a  while  she  says  short-like,  says 
she: 

"Can  ye  no*  reciept  an  accoont?" 

"I  can,"  says  I,  wi'  great  respec', 
"when  it's  paid,  mistress." 

"Ye've  as  much  money  there  as  ever 
ye'll  get,"  she  says. 

"I'm  sorry,"  says  I,  "but  it's  no  quite 
enough."  Wi'  a  pleasant  smile,  I  adds: 
"Surely,  Mrs.  Turpie,  another  tenpence'll 
no'  burst  ye." 

Dear,  dear!  Tack  is  waisted  on  some 
folk!  She  flew  into  a  passion. 

"I'm  for  none  o'  your  impiddence," 
126 


THE  PROFITEER 


she  says.  "Receipt  that  accoont  in  full, 
this  instant!" 

I  sadly  shook  ma  heid,  and  put  the 
pen  back  in  the  ink-pot. 

"What?— ye  refuse?"  she  yells.  "I 
tell  ye  I'm  entitled  to  the  tenpence  off! 
I've  been  charged  ower  much  for  the 
groceries,  and  I'm  no'  gaun  to  stand  it." 

I  kep'  ma  temper.  "Mr.  Clark,"  says 
I,  "sells  everything  at  the  fairest  prices. 
He  wouldna  seek  to  cheat  a  dotty  Ger- 


man." 


"Na;  but  he  would  tak'  advantage  o' 
his  ain  folk,"  she  says.  "He's  a  profiteer, 
that's  what  he  is!" 

"Here,  stop  it!"  says  I.  I  was  that 
angry  I  could  ha'e  took  and  pushed  the 
cherry  into  the  cake.  "Ye've  nae  busi- 
ness to  say  a  thing  like  that  behind  his 
back." 

"Fetch  him,  and  I'll  say  it  to  his  front." 

"He'll  ha'e  ye  up  for  damnages." 
127 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


"Feteh  him!" 

"He's  busy.  Come  on,  mistress,"  says 
I,  thinkin'  to  sooth  her,  "ye  ken  fine  Mr. 
Clark's  as  honest  a  man  as  ye'll  fine  in 
Kirkside,  and  a  heap  honester  than  some 
we  could  name.  Suppose  ye  settle  the 
accoont  noo,  and  ha'e  a  nice  wee  frien'ly 
crack  wi'  him  the  next  time  ye're  in — eh? " 

I  thought  I  had  won,  but  alas!  she 
had  jist  been  gettin'  her  breath.  And 
noo  she  burst  oot  into  a  long  story  aboot 
hoo  she  had  been  diddled  wi'  this,  that  & 
the  other  thing.  And  afore  she  run  dry, 
P.  Clark,  to  ma  unspeechable  horror,  ar- 
rived on  the  seen. 

"What's  ado,  John?"  says  he,  stern- 
like. 

Afore  I  could  answer,  she  cries:  "Oh, 
there  he  is,  the  profiteer  hissel'!"  And 
she  pinted  her  finger  at  him. 

"What's  that  ye're  sayin',  Mrs.  Tur- 
pie?"  he  asks,  no'  catchin'  her  meanin'. 
128 


THE  PROFITEER 


"Profiteer,  profiteer!"  And  she  near 
danced  wi'  her  angry  passion. 

P.  Clark  turned  the  colour  o'  Dunlop 
cheese,  and  I  seen  his  hand  shake.  But 
he  didna  lift  his  voice  above  the  usual. 

"John,  what  started  this?"  he  asks  me. 

I  showed  him  the  a/c  and  the  cash. 
After  a  wee  while  he  gi'ed  a  nod. 

"Receipt  it,"  says  he. 

I  jist  looked  at  him. 

"D'ye  hear  me?"  he  says.  "Receipt 
the  accoont." 

Of  course  I  had  to  obey.  "Am  I  to 
put  'with  thanks'?"  I  calmly  inquired, 
though  I  was  bilin'  inside. 

He  didna  answer,  so  I  wrote  "without 
thanks,"  and  scored  it  under.  I  folded 
the  paper  and  shoved  it  across  the 
coonter. 

"And  noo,"  says  P.  Clark  to  her,  "I'll 
be  pleased  if  ye  never  enter  ma  shop 
again." 

129 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


She  gaed  to  the  door  afore  she  an- 
swered him.  "If  your  shop  was  the  only 
place  open,"  says  she,  savage-like,  "I 
wouldna  enter  it,  no'  if  I  was  chased  by 
the  Germans." 

"Hoots!"  says  I,  "nae  German  would 
chase  you,  once  he  seen  your  face!" 

She  was  that  surprised  she  couldna 
speak,  and  jist  then  Postie  cam'  in  wi' 
some  letters,  so  she  thought  it  best  to 
hook  it.  As  soon  as  Postie  had  went,  I 
says  to  P.  Clark,  says  I: 

"That  dished  her!— eh?" 

But  he  wasna  a  bit  gratified;  in  fac' 
he  was  lookin'  as  savage  as  ever  I  see  him. 
Suddently  he  started  to  stamp  up  and 
doon  behind  the  coonter,  shakin'  his  fist 
at  naething  and  makin'  comic  faces— 
though  of  course,  they  wasna  intended 
to  be  that.  And  jist  as  suddently  he 
stopped,  and  cried  in  a  loud  gronin'  voice: 

"Boy!  did  ye  hear  what  she  called  me?" 
130 


THE  PROFITEER 


"I'm  no'  deaf,"  says  I. 

"She  called  me  Profiteer! — Profiteer!" 
he  says,  tremlin'. 

"It  would  ha'e  been  like  her  neck  to 
ha'e  called  ye  the  Profit  Jonah,"  I  says 
for  to  cheer  him  up. 

He  pd.  nae  attention.  "Profiteer!"  he 
says  again;  "that's  what  she  called  me!" 

"So  it  is,"  says  I;  "and  ye  presented 
her  wi'  lOd.  for  daein'  it.  Oh,  ye'll  get 
plenty  to  call  ye  names  at  that  price,  Mr. 
Clark." 

It  was  jist  as  if  I  had  poked  ma  finger 
into  his  wastecoat.  He  gi'ed  a  queer 
start,  and  then  stared  at  me  for  ever  so 
long.  Then,  at  last,  he  says,  in  a  voice 
that  sounded  as  if  he  had  been  tryin'  to 
swallow  a  pun'  o'  dry  oatmeal,  says  he: 

"What  might  ye  be  meanin'  by  that, 
ma  lad?" 

"I'll  tell  ye  what  I  think,  if  you'll  first 
tell  me  what  made  ye  drop  the  10d., 
131 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


Mr.  Clark,"  I  says,  speakin'  quite  re- 
spectful-like,  but  lookin'  him  straight  in 
the  eye. 

After  a  wee  while  he  lets  out  a  grone. 
"I  hope  I'm  an  honest  man,"  says  he, 
"but  I  never  could  face  publicosity.  I 
dropped  the  10d.,  John,  because  I  was 
feared  her  voice  would  gather  a  crowd 
to  the  shop  door.  If  she  had  been  a 
man— 

"Ay,"  says  I,  "I  admit  ye  was  handy- 
caped  by  her  sect,  as  ye've  been  afore  in 
mair  or  less  similar  cases.  Noo,  dae  ye 
want  to  hear  what  I  think?" 

"  Go  on,"  says  he  a  bit  short-like. 

"I  think,"  says  I,  "that  it's  her  that's 
the  profiteer." 

"What?"  says  he. 

"Wait  and  see,  Mr.  Clark,"  says  I. 

Weel,  I  was  right,  as  it  turned  oot, 
though  I  was  mearly  guessin'  then. 

We  both  made  inquiries  secret-like, 
132 


THE  PROFITEER 


and  afore  long  we  discovered  that  Mrs. 
Turpie  had  run  up  small  a/cs  wi'  J  the 
shops  in  Kirkside,  and  then  done  the 
shopkeepers  the  same  as  she  done  P. 
Clark.  Ye  can  call  them  a'  cowards,  if 
ye  like,  genteel  reader,  but  I've  got  an 
aunt,  and  I  ken  that  a  yellin'  woman  is  a 
fearful  thing.  So,  on  the  hole,  I  simpa- 
thize  wi'  P.  Clark  and  his  fellow  suf- 
ferers. 

And  if  ye  ask  for  proof  o'  the  truth  o' 
ma  tale,  I  beg  to  inform  ye  that  on  the 
second  Sabbath  after  the  event,  Mrs. 
Turpie,  wee  red  nose  and  all,  waddled 
into  the  Kirk,  as  prood  as  ye  like,  wi'  a 
split  new  hat,  on  which  was  stuck  a 
bunch  o'  grapes,  severeal  plooms,  and  a 
lot  o'  fig  leaves.  P.  s. — The  fruits  wasna 
genuine. 


133 


XIV 

JESSIE  ONCE  MORE 

TUESDAY,  last  week,  I  slep'  in 
owin'  to  ma  aunt  thinkin'  she  had 
wakened  me  3  times,  when  she  had 
only  done  it  twice.  I'm  gettin'  fed  up 
wi'  her  carelessness.  P.  Clark  was  doon 
on  me  like  a  cart  o'  bricks,  and  if  I  hadna 
kent  the  man  didna  mean  it,  I  would  ha'e 
gi'ed  him  warnin'  on  the  spot,  for  there's 
fifty  jobs  I  could  get  the  noo  as  easy  as 
winkin'.  Still,  I  like  P.  Clark  weel 
enough  to  overlook  a  guid  deal,  and,  as 
Miss  Moubray  was  in  the  shop,  I  re- 
spected his  feelin's,  and  didna  even  an- 
swer him  back.  But  I  wasna  what  ye 
would  call  in  the  best  o'  fettle  when  I 
set  oot  on  the  mornin'  roun'  for  orders, 
\  an  hour  late. 

134 


JESSIE  ONCE  MORE 


I  was  gaun  up  Bogle's  Brae  when  I 
met  Peter  Knox  comin'  doon.  Noo,  for 
the  last  two-three  weeks  Peter  Knox  has 
been  aboot  as  cheery-like  as  a  goat  wi' 
a  gum-bile.  In  fac',  he  was  talkin'  the 
last  time  I  could  be  fashed  listenin'  to 
him,  o'  chuckin'  up  everything  and  be- 
comin'  a  sailor,  though  he  kens  naething 
about  naval  affairs  excep'  what  he's 
picked  up  in  Goldie's  fish-shop,  which  is 
25  mile  frae  the  nearest  coast.  But 
when  I  met  him  that  mornin'  he  had 
a  smile  on  his  face  like  a  crack  in  a 
current  bun. 

"What's  wrang  wi'  ye?"  says  I. 

"Wrang  wi'  me!"  he  says  in  surprise. 
"Naething!" 

:<Ye  look  as  if  ye  was  gaun  off  your 
onion,"  I  tells  him. 

"It's  rapture!"  says  he.  "I've  seen 
her!" 

"Seen  wha?"  I  asks. 
135 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


"Jessie,"  says  he,  wi'  as  silly  a  look  as 
ever  I  seen  on  a  human  mug. 

"Oh,"  says  I,  "I  thought  ye  didna  call 
on  the  folk  she's  wi'!" 

"Ah,  but  she's  in  a  new  place — since 
last  night,"  says  he. 

"That's  her  14th  situation  since  the 
New  Year,"  says  I. 

"What  if  it  is?"  he  cries.  "It  shows 
what  a  favourite  she  is!" 

"Well,"  says  I,  "ye  should  get  photo- 
graphed afore  your  face  slips  again.  So 
long!" 

"Aw,  bide  a  minute,"  says  he.  "What 
dae  ye  think?  She's  asked  me  to  ma 
supper  the  night!"  And  he  burst  oot 
laughin'  like  a  hen  ower  its  egg. 

I  admit  I  was  astonished  at  the  news. 
"Wha's  her  new  mistress?"  I  says,  as  if  I 
wasna. 

"Mrs.  Park.  She's  awa'  to  Glasgow 
this  mornin',  and  she  and  Park'll  no'  be 
136 


JESSIE  ONCE  MORE 


hame  till  the  last  train.  They're  jist 
new  married — fine  soft  job  for  Jessie! 
But  what  dae  ye  think  of  her  askin'  me 
to  ma  supper,  Johnny?"  he  says,  as 
cocky  as  ye  like. 

"Depends  on  what  ye're  gaun  to  get 
for  yer  supper,"  says  I. 

"I  can  tell  ye  that!"  says  he.  "Steak 
&  kidney  pie,  and  hot  buttered  toast,  and 
cheese,  and  stewed  figs,  and— 

"Stop  it!  I  dinna  want  to  be  dis- 
gusted," says  I.  "This  is  war-time.  Ye 
might  think  shame  o'  yersel',  Peter 
Knox!" 

"But  it's  no'  jist  the  feed  I'm  gaun 
for,"  he  says,  grinnin'  and  blushin'. 

"Haw,"  says  I,  wi'  a  kind  smile,  "I 
suppose  ye  think  she's  mashed  on  ye, 
Peter.  Maybe  she's  losin'  her  reason  wi' 
so  many  changes.  Weel,  I  maun  get 
a  move  on.  So  long,  and  Heaven  help 
ye!" 

137 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


I  left  him  crimsen  wi'  confusion— 
that's  oot  o'  a  book — and  went  on  ma 
weary  way.  But  I  couldna  help  won- 
derin'  what  Jessie  was  after,  for  she  was 
still  walkin'  oot  wi'  the  railway  porter— 
him  wi'  the  game  leg  and  stammer,  puir 
chap — and  Peter's  but  the  two  year 
aulder  nor  masel,'  which  is  no'  a  mar- 
rigible  age.  However,  as  Park's  hoose 
was  one  o'  my  calls,  I  fancied  I  would 
maybe  learn  something  frae  Jessie  her- 
sel'. 

Later  on,  I  found  her  sittin'  in  the 
garden  eatin'  grapes  and  playin'  wi'  the 
cat,  for  it  was  a  fine,  warm  mornin'. 

"Hullo,  Jessie,"  says  I.  "Ye've  made 
another  change!" 

"And  for  the  better,  once  more, 
Johnny,"  says  she. 

"Ye  wasna  long  wi'  Mrs.  Davy,"  says  I. 

"I  was  there  a  fortnight.     She  wasna 
\  bad,  but  I  couldna  stick  the  boss.     He 
138 


JESSIE  ONCE  MORE 


was  that  pernicketty,"  she  says.  "  Worked 
hisseF  into  a  shockin'  passion  because  he 
got  a  hairpin  in  his  soup." 

"So  it  was  really  the  sack  for  ye  this 
time,"  says  I. 

"Not  at  all!  I  proved  the  hairpin  was 
one  o'  hers — and  so  it  was,  for  I  got  it 
off  her  dressin'  table — and  resigned  afore 
she  could  open  her  mooth."  And  Jessie 
laughed  like  to  kill  herself.  When  she 
got  better  she  asked  me  if  I  could  shift  a 
bottle  o'  lemonade.  "I  was  jist  thinkin' 
o'  ha'ein'  one  masel',"  she  says. 

I  said  I  had  nae  objections  to  jinin'  her. 
:'Ye  seem  to  be  in  clover  here,  Jessie," 
I  remarks. 

"That's  the  word  for  it,"  says  she. 
"  Ye  see,  the  young  couple  is  that  happy, 
they  want  everybody  else  to  be  ditto. 
I  shouldna  wonder  if  I  stop  here  a  couple 
o'  month." 

While  we  was  drinkin'  the  lemonade  I 
139 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


mentions,  careless-like,  ma  meetin'  wi* 
Peter  Knox. 

"Maybe  he  told  ye,"  she  says,  "o' 
the  little  hoose-warmin'  I'm  ha'ein'  the 
night.  I  hope  ye'll  come,  Johnny." 

I  could  scarsely  beleive  ma  ear.  "To 
ma  supper?"  I  says  at  last. 

"8  p.m.,  promp',"  says  she.  "The 
mistress'll  no'  be  back  till  11." 

Well,  I  couldna  rudely  refuse.  But  a* 
the  same,  as  I  gaed  doon  the  road,  I 
couldna  help  wonderin';  and  if  it  had 
been  the  1st  o'  Ap.  instead  o'  the  23rd  o' 
Aug.  I  would  ha'e  had  the  gravest  doubts, 
as  the  newspapers  says.  "However," 
says  I  to  masel',  "I'm  asked  to  ma  sup- 
per, and  I'll  see  that  I  get  it." 

In  the  afternoon  I  met  Peter.  He 
didna  seem  extra  pleased  to  hear  o'  ma 
invite,  but  he  promised  to  meet  me  in 
guid  time  to  be  there  at  8. 

And  so  he  did,  wi'  three  cuts  on  his  face, 
140 


JESSIE  ONCE  MORE 


and  mair  pomade  nor  hair  on  his  heid.  I 
had  simply  had  a  wash  and  put  on  a  clean 
collar  and  ma  Sabbath  tie.  I  had  took  as 
little  tea  as  possible,  but  Peter  had  took 
none,  and  was  like  to  drop  for  want  o* 
meat. 

We  arrived  promp'  to  the  minute. 
And  there  was  Jessie,  a  terrible  swell  in  a 
pink  dress  and  pink  stockin's.  Aw,  I've 
seen  uglier  nor  her.  She  tell't  us  to  sit 
doon  and  mak'  oorsel's  at  name,  but 
Peter  was  that  bashful  he  couldna  dae 
nae thing  but  twist  his  legs  and  grin. 
The  table  was  set  for  three,  and  when 
Jessie  opened  the  oven  to  let  us  see  the 
pie,  and  the  hot  toast,  and  the  figs,  the 
perfume  o'  that  kitchen  would  ha'e  been 
heavenly,  if  it  hadna  been  for  Peter's 
pomade. 

"We'll   begin   in   five   minutes,"   says 
Jessie,   lookin'   at   the   clock.     And   jist 
as  she  spoke  the  bell  rang. 
141 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


"Mercy!  and  the  postman's  past!" 
she  cried.  "Dinna  mak'  a  sound."  She 
ran  oot  o'  the  kitchen,  and  I  guessed 
she  was  keekin'  at  the  glass  front-door. 
She  cam'  back  lookin'  as  if  she  had 
seen  a  gosht.  "Oh,  criffens!"  she 
whispers.  "They've  come  name  wi' 
the  earlier  train!  I'm  done  for!  Scoot, 
lads!" 

The  bell  rang  again,  and  we  scooted. 
I  was  gey  angry,  and  Peter  wasna  far 
off  the  greetin'. 

Afore  long  I  stopped  runnin'. 

"See  here,  Peter,"  says  I,  "I  hope  she's 
no'  got  into  trouble.  I'm  gaun  back  to 
see.  Come  on!" 

We  gaed  back,  and  crep'  like  mice  to 
the  kitchen  window.  We  could  jist  man- 
age to  see  through  the  screen. 

Oh,  what  an  unseemly  sight  to  behold! 
Jessie,  smilin'  like  to  hurt  hersel',  was 
puttin'  the  pie  on  the  table,  noo  set  for 
142 


JESSIE  ONCE  MORE 


twa,  in  front  o'  the  railway  porter,  in  a* 
his  Sabbath  duds. 

"Oh  dear,  oh  dear!"  says  Peter,  and  I 
was  near  gronin'  masel',  for  it  was  a  dirty 
crule  thing  she  had  did  to  him  and  me, 
especially  him. 

But  suddenly  I  got  a  notion. 

"Peter,"  says  I,  "slip  roun'  to  the 
front  door,  and  ring  the  bell;  then  bunk 
back  to  the  lane.  Quick,  or  I'll  knock  the 
face  off  ye!" 

He  went,  and  I  waited.  And  at  last 
the  bell  rang. 

Ye  should  ha'e  seen  the  faces  o'  Jessie 
and  the  porter!  Gilt  was  wrote  upon 
them!  I  had  jist  time  to  jink  behind  the 
meat-safe  when  he  cam'  oot,  fleein'  for  his 
life  by  the  back-gate. 

It  was  noo  or  never!     I  ran  into  the 
kitchen,  got  the  pie  in  a  towle,  nabbed 
some  spoons,  and  hooked  it,  jist  as  Jessie 
banged  the  front-door. 
143 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


There's  a  wee  wood  yonder,  nice  and 
handy,  and  Peter  and  me  was  hid  in  it 
by  the  time  Jessie  cam'  to  the  back-gate 
wi'  a  lamp.  Whether  she  was  lookin' 
for  the  porter  or  the  pie,  I  canna  tell  ye. 

At  first  Peter  wouldna  eat,  gronin'  at 
the  trick  Jessie  had  tried  to  play,  but  in 
the  end  he  shifted  the  biggest  J,  and 
called  me  a  holy  jenius. 

Later  on,  we  left  the  dish  and  spoons 
at  the  back  door. 

Honesty  is  the  best  policy.  When 
ye're  asked  to  yer  supper,  see  that  ye  get 
it. 


144 


XV 

HE  DISCOURSES  ON  MARRIAGE 

THERE'S  something  in  the  wind  at 
hame.  For  the  last  month  or  twa 
McGuffie,  the  Carrier,  has  took 
to  droppin'  in  at  night  and  keepin' 
ma  aunt  comp'ny;  and  ma  aunt  has 
stopped  flytin'  me  for  gaun  oot  after  I've 
had  ma  tea.  It  used  to  be :  "  Can  ye  no' 
sit  still  and  read  something  for  to  im- 
prove yer  mind,  ye  stupid  thing?"  But 
noo  it's:  "I  suppose  ye  maun  ha'e  yer 
amusement,  laddie;  jist  dinna  be  ower 
late" — or  something  like  that.  And  the 
other  night,  when  I  cam'  hame  early, 
because  it  was  wet,  I  found  McGuffie 
turnin'  the  mangle  for  her.  Weel,  when 
a  man  does  that  for  a  woman,  free, 
graetis,  there's  something  up. 
145 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


I  daresay  I  wouldna  objec'  to  McGuffie 
for  an  uncle-in-law;  he  was  aye  guid  to 
me  when  I  was  a  wean,  and  many's  the 
ride  I  got  on  his  cart — that  was  afore  he 
becam'  a  swell  wi'  his  motor-lorry.  But 
I  canna  think  what  he  sees  in  ma  aunt. 
She's  no'  exactly  ugly,  but  she's  far  frae 
beauteous.  However,  when  a  man  gets 
up  in  years,  like  McGuffie,  I  suppose 
one  face  is  as  nice  as  another,  and,  after  a' 
it's  no'  the  face  that  cooks  his  meat  and 
keeps  his  hoose  for  him. 

It  would  be  a  guid  enough  thing  for 
ma  aunt,  if  he  was  to  accep'  her.  He 
has  been  wed  already,  but  his  wife  de- 
funked  severeal  years  ago,  and,  they 
say,  he's  been  savin'  cash  ever  since. 
He's  got  a  bonny  wee  cottage  wi'  a  fine 
garden — things  for  eatin',  I  mean;  and 
he  keeps  pigs,  so  ma  aunt  would  ha'e 
company  when  he  was  awa'  on  the  road. 
I  should  say  he  wouldna  expec'  her  to 
146 


keep  on  the  landry ;  that  would  look  ower 
like  as  if  he  was  marry  in'  her  for  to  get 
his  sarks  biled  for  naething.  I  dinna 
think  he's  that  sort. 

Besides,  ma  aunt's  no'  as  stupid  as  she 
looks.  She  wouldna  encourage  him  if 
she  thought  he  was  seekin'  to  better  his- 
sel'  at  her  expenses.  He's  no'  the  first, 
mind  ye,  that  has  tried  to  get  her.  Ye 
may  think  that  astonishin',  but  it's  a 
fac'.  There  was  an  auld  plumber  chap 
that  once  tried  to  hang  up  his  hat.  He 
was  better  at  smokin'  pipes  nor  mendin' 
them,  and  he  touched  beer  oftener  nor 
water;  but  he  was  a  great  talker,  and  at 
first  ma  aunt  seemed  to  fancy  him.  But 
she  soon  seen  that  what  he  wanted  was  to 
retire  frae  his  trade  and  tak'  a  nice  easy- 
osie  job  in  the  landry,  where  there  was 
naething  for  him  to  dae  excep'  coont  the 
cash,  when  there  was  ony.  And  afore 
long  ma  aunt  turned  him  off  like  an 
147 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


escape  o'  gas.  Oh,  she's  no'  so  green 
aboot  auld  men.  It's  the  young  folk 
she  doesna  understand. 

Marriage  is  a  queer  thing.  Near  every- 
body seems  daft  for  to  get  it,  but  they're 
no'  a'  so  pleased-like  after  they've  got  it. 
And  a  weddin's  a  queer  thing,  too.  I've 
been  but  the  once  at  a  weddin'.  Ma 
aunt  took  me  because  she  couldna  leave 
me  in  the  hoose,  ma  age  then  bein'  ten- 
der. I  dinna  mind  much  aboot  it  excep' 
that  the  1st  part  was  like  a  funeral,  and 
the  2nd  part  was  maybe  meant  to  be 
funny.  But  it  was  nae  fun  for  me,  no* 
even  the  supper.  I  suppose  I  misbehove 
masel'  at  the  table  for  ma  aunt  made  me 
get  doon  ablow  it,  and  I  sat  there  greetin' 
to  masel'  till  a  kind  man  started  to  pass 
me  pastries  and  sangwidges  and  sausiges, 
and  fruits  and  cakes  and  sweeties,  and  he 
kep'  on  passin'  till  I  was  as  sick  as  a 
pussy  cat.  I  hope  ma  aunt's  weddin', 
148 


HE  DISCOURSES  ON  MARRIAGE 

if  it  comes  off,  will  be  cheerier  nor 
that. 

As  far  as  I  can  mak'  oot,  girls  is  keener 
nor  men  on  gettin'  married.  I  said  that 
to  Miss  Moubray,  the  other  day,  and  she 
was  terrible  offended. 

"I  didna  mean  to  insult  ye,"  says  I, 
offerin'  her  a  date  frae  a  box  that  had  got 
damaged.  "I  was  speakin'  o'  girls  on 
the  hole.  Of  course  you  never  needed  to 
chase  a  man."  That  was  a  compliment, 
but  it  was  threw  away.  So  I  thought  it 
best  to  eat  the  date  masel'. 

"Chase  a  man,  indeed!"  she  says  hot- 
tily.  "No  true  girl  would  ever  dream  of 
doing  such  a  thing." 

"I  canna  tell  ye  whether  they  dream 
aboot  it  or  no',"  says  I,  "but  there's 
plenty  o'  chasers  in  Kirkside." 

She  said  she  didna  believe  it. 

"There's  a  porter  at  the  station,"  I 
tells  her,  "and  I  could  name  a  dozen  girls 
149 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


that's  after  him.  And  he's  only  after 
one  o*  them." 

"He  must  be  an  attractive  young 
man!"  she  says,  wi'  a  snuff.  "And  do 
they  chase  him  up  and  down  the  plat- 
form?" 

"My!  but  ye're  green!"  says  I,  afore  I 
could  stop  it.  "That's  no  what  I  meant 
by  chasin'." 

"And  what  did  you  mean?"  she  asks. 

I  had  to  think  for  a  second.  Then 
says  I:  "Nae  doobt,  Miss  Moubray, 
ye've  had  chaps  runnin'  after  ye  in  yer 
time — afore  ye  got  engaged." 

She  gi'ed  her  heid  a  bit  toss,  and  tried 
no'  to  smile. 

"Well,  I  see  ye  cannot  deny  it,"  I  says. 
"But  ye're  no'  gaun  to  tell  me  that  the 
chaps  kep'  runnin'  wi'  their  feet  a'  the 
time — are  ye?" 

"Of  course  not,"  she  says,  lookin'  a 
little  mair  agreeable  at  me.  "Running 
150 


HE  DISCOURSES  ON  MARRIAGE 

after  is  what  is  called  a  figure  of  speech, 
Johnny." 

"Right  ye  are!"  says  I.  "And  so  is 
chasin'I  Somebody  gets  catched  either 
way." 

"You  are  too  young  to  be  talking  of 
such  things,"  she  says,  on  her  high  horse 
again.  "As  for  the  porter  and  the  twelve 
girls,  even  if  I  could  believe  it,  it  proves  0 
to  me." 

"It  proves  a  lot  to  me,"  says  I. 

"What  does  it  prove?"  she  asks. 

"It  proves  that  girls  is  twelve  times  as 
keen  on  gettin'  married  as  men  is,"  I 
replies. 

At  that  she  burst  oot  laughin',  and 
then  a  customer  cam'  in,  so  oor  conver- 
sation was  at  an  end. 

The  same  afternoon,  I  met  Jessie  on 

the   road,    oot   for   her   J-holiday.     Her 

and  me  had  made  it  up  the  mornin*  after 

the  supper  affair;   she  admitted  she  had 

151 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


played  a  dirty  trick,  and  I  admitted  that 
she  was  fit  to  mak'  pies  for  the  royal 
family.  But  Peter  Knox  hasna  got  ower 
it  yet.  He  keeps  wishin'  he  hadna  et  his 
share  o'  the  pie,  because  Jessie'll  think 
he  cared  mair  for  his  inside  nor  for  her, 
and  noo  he  canna  reprooch  her  for  her 
crulety,  &c.  Aw,  ye  never  seen  sich  a 
pessimism  as  Peter 

I  asked  Jessie  where  she  was  boun' 
for. 

"The  station,"  says  she,  withoot  a 
blush. 

"Oh,  can  ye  no'  let  the  man  be?"  says  I. 

"What  man?"  says  she. 

"Ye  ken  fine  what  man!"  I  replies. 

"Oh,"  she  says  laughin',  "ye  mean 
the  porter?  That's  a'  by,  Johnny." 

"What?  Ha'e  ye  gi'ed  him  the  push?" 
I  asks. 

"Jist  that,"  says  she.  "He  never 
cam'  back  to  see  if  the  mistress  had  killed 
152 


HE  DISCOURSES  ON  MARRIAGE 

me  that  night.  Na,  na;  he'll  get  the 
frozen  face  frae  me  when  I  get  into  the 
train.  I  dinna  ask  for  heros  and  gladia- 
tors at  this  time  o'  day,  but  I  expec*  a 
man  to  be  worthy  o'  his  troosers." 

"  Splendid ! "  says  I.  "  But  a'  the  same, 
Jessie,"  I  says  respectful-like,  "I  suppose 
ye're  keen  on  gettin'  married?" 

"Is  this  a  proposal?"  says  she, 
turnin'  up  her  eyes  and  claspin'  her 
hands.  She  had  on  pure  white  gloves, 
mind  ye! 

"Ach,  get  oot!"  says  I.  "It's  jist  a 
question " 

"Without  the  pop!"  she  says  smilin'. 
"Weel,  I'll  gi'e  ye  a  straight  answer.  I 
am  keen  on  gettin'  married — as  keen  as 
mustard " 

"I  thought  ye  was!"  says  I. 

"But  I  ha'ena  yet  seen  the  man  I 
would  marry — no'  if  it  was  to  save  ma 
neck!" 

153 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


"Well,  I'm  dashed!"  says  I.  "Ha'e 
ye  ever  had  ony  proposals?" 

"Heaps,"  says  she.  "I've  been  en- 
gaged three  times,  but  I  aye  got  fed  up 
wi'  the  chap." 

"Upon  ma  sam,"  says  I,  "I  dinna  un- 
derstand girls." 

"Ye'll  be  a  gey  auld  man  afore  ye  dae 
that,"  she  says.  "So  long,  Johnny.  I 
maun  scoot  for  the  train." 

She  scooted,  and  I  canna  tell  ye  yet 
whether  I  beleive  her  or  no'! 

Aweel,  I  hope  ma  aunt's  no'  so  ill  to 
please.  The  mair  I  think  on  it,  the  mair 
I  like  the  notion  o'  that  bonny  wee  cot- 
tage o'  McGuffie's,  wi'  its  vegitibles  and 
fruits,  no'  forgettin'  the  pigs. 


154 


XVI 

A  GOOD  CAUSE 

FOR  a  long  while  I  had  been  wishin* 
I    could    dae    something    for    the 
wounded  sojers — something  off  ma 
ain   bat,  I   mean;   but  when   ye've   an 
aunt  that  reg'larly  pinches  yer  wages,  a* 
but  a  bob,  the  sojers  arena  likely  to  get 
a  handsome  treat  in  a  hurry;  and  at  the 
beginnin'  o'  last  month  I  was  near  to 
chuckin'  the  notion  in  dispair.     But  ye 
never  ken  yer  luck. 

On  the  Sunday  mornin'  ma  aunt  for- 
got to  wind  as  usual  the  grandfayther's 
clock — I  doobt  there's  really  something 
up  betwixt  her  and  McGuffie,  the  Car- 
rier— and  the  auld  thing  stopped  in  the 
middle  o'  the  night.  Next  mornin'  ma 
155 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


aunt  got  up  in  a  fright,  yellin'  that  we 
had  slep'  in;  and  I  was  at  ma  breakfast 
afore  I  was  \  awake.  Worse  nor  that, 
I  was  at  the  shop  10  minutes  ower  early. 

However,  P.  Clark  was  pleased  when 
he  arrived  on  the  seen,  and  said  I  was  im- 
provin'.  He  opened  the  door  and  gaed 
into  the  back-shop  to  get  his  apron,  while 
I  took  doon  the  shutters.  When  I  seen 
him  again  he  had  a  face  as  long's  a  fiddle. 

"John,"  says  he,  "a  tradegy  has  hap- 
pened. The  cat's  been  and  got  another 
famly." 

We  keep  a  cat  in  the  shop  to  keep  doon 
the  mice.  It  whiles  droons  them  in  the 
treacle,  I  think. 

"What  way  a  tradegy,  sir?"  says  I. 

"Oh,"  says  he,  wi'  a  grone,  "I'm  sure 
I've  drooned  three  hundred  kittens  in 
ma  time,  and  I'm  no'  used  to  it  yet.  Did 
ever  ye  droon  a  kitten,  John?" 

"Ma  aunt  never  kep'  a  cat,"  says  I. 
156 


A  GOOD  CAUSE 


:<  There's  six  back  there,"  he  says, 
wipin'  his  brow.  "Dammit!"  says  he — 
I  never  heard  him  say  it  straight  oot 
afore—  "  I  canna  look  the  mither  in  the 
face.  Dae  ye  think  ye  could  manage  the 
job?" 

"Easy,"  says  I. 

"Ye'll  no'  let  them  suffer?"  says  he. 

"Leave  it  to  me,"  says  I.  "D'ye 
want  it  done  noo?" 

"Ay,"  says  he,  "  the  sooner  the 
better." 

I  gaed  into  the  back  shop.  I  thought 
it  would  ha'e  been  easy,  but  it  wasna. 
In  fac',  I  jist  couldna  dae  it.  I  was  gey 
ashamed  o'  masel'.  I  sat  and  looked  at 
the  wee  things,  and  wondered  what  I 
would  say  to  P.  Clark.  I  canna  tell  ye 
what  made  me  think  o'  the  sojers  then. 

P.  Clark  cam'  ben  afore  I  was  ready. 

"So  ye  canna  dae  it,  John,"  says  he, 
wi'  great  kindness.  "I  shouldna  ha'e 
157 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


asked  ye.  Awa'  forward  to  the  shop, 
laddie.  I  maun  jist  dae  it  masel'." 

"Will  ye  let  me  keep  them,  sir,"  says 
I,  "and  ask  nae  questions  in  the  mean- 
time?" 

"What!"  says  he.  "Keep  six  kittens! 
Wha's  to  feed  them  when  the  time 
comes?" 

"I'll  see  to  that,"  says  I.  "Let  me 
keep  them,  Mr.  Clark." 

"Here?"  says  he. 

"Ay,"  says  I.  "In  the  cellar,  if  ye 
like." 

Aweel,  the  upshot  was  that  he  said  I 
could  keep  them,  but  he  left  me  waggin' 
his  heid. 

The  keepin'  o'  them  6  kittens  was  nae 
joke;  it  burst  me  finnancially;  but  we 
needna  gang  into  that. 

It  took  me  a  day  or  2  to  mak'  ma  plans, 
and  then  I  seen  I  would  need  some  help. 
I  wanted  somebody  that  could  tell  a 
158 


A  GOOD  CAUSE 


falsehood  wi'  a  straight  face.     So  I  gaed 
to  Jessie. 

"  Jessie,"  says  I,  "  dae  ye  want  to  dae 
some  wounded  sojers  a  guid  turn?" 

"Gi'e  me  the  chance,"  says  she. 

"Can  I  trust  ye?  "I  asks. 

"Wi'  onything  but  confectionary,"  she 
replies. 

So  I  tell't  her  ma  plan. 

When  I  had  finished,  she  flung  her  arms 
roun'  ma  neck  and  kissed  me. 

"Aw,  cheese  it!"  says  I,  grately  as- 
tonished, though  no'  exactly  disgusted. 

"I  couldna  help  it,"  says  she.  "Ye're 
a  fair  treat,  Johnny,  and  I'll  help  ye  for 
a'  I'm  worth.  It'll  be  fine  fun,  too." 
And  she  laughed.  "This  is  ma  night 
out,  and  I'll  commence  so  win'  the  guid 
seed." 

She  kep'  her  word. 

In  three  days  dozens  o'  the  servant  girls 
in  Kirkside  was  complainin'  to  their  mis- 
159 


JOXNNY  PRYDE 


tresses  aboot  a  moose  in  the  pantry,  and 
folk  was  beginnin'  to  talk  o'  the  terrible 
plague  o'  mice  which  a  famous  rat- 
catcher had  foretelled  was  comin'  wi'  the 
winter. 

Then  it  was  time  for  me  to  get  busy. 
In  makin'  ma  mornin'  calls  I  mentioned 
the  subjec'  o'  mice  at  every  door.  If  I 
got  any  encouragement,  I  mentioned  the 
subjec'  o'  cats.  If  I  got  a  little  mair  en- 
couragement, I  asked  for  to  see  the  mis- 
tress, if  she  wasna  present. 

I  was  gey  bashful  at  first,  but  afore 
long  I  had  ma  speech  pretty  pat.  It 
was  this: 

"Fine  (or  disagreeable)  mornin', 
ma'am.  Ye'll  ha'e  heard  o'  the  mice 
plague  that's  comin'.  Traps  is  maybe  a 
sort  o'  cure,  but  cats  is  prevention.  I 
can  supply  a  superior  kitten,  to  be  de- 
livered at  yer  door  in  three  weeks,  price 
twa  shillin's  and  six-pence,  net — and 
160 


A  GOOD  CAUSE 


every  penny '11  gang  to  a  treat  for  the 
wounded  sojers." 

Weel,  it  seemed  ower  guid  to  be  true, 
but  by  the  second  mornin'  I  had  booked 
orders  for  a'  ma  6  kittens! 

I  wasna  long  in  lettin'  Jessie  ken. 
She  seemed  pleased,  but  she  didna  try 
to  kiss  me  again.  I  was  a  little  sur- 
prised at  that.  Girls  is  rum. 

"Are  ye  no'  satisfied?"  I  asks  her. 

"Are  you?"  says  she. 

"Fifteen  bob  is  no'  bad,"  I  says. 

"For  a  start,"  says  she.  "Bless  yer 
heart,  Johnny,  why  d'ye  no'  commandeer 
a'  the  kittens  born  in  Kirkside?  If  ye 
dinna,  other  people  will,  and  I  wouldna 
garrantee  that  the  sojers'll  get  the  bene- 
fit. If  ye  need  a  bit  cash,  ye'll  find  it 
here." 

"By  jings,"  says  I,  "ye're  a  bright  one, 
Jessie!  I'll  ha'e  a  shot  at  it." 

But  I  soon  seen  it  wasna  gaun  to  be 
161 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


easy.  Cash  would  be  needed,  but  I 
couldna  think  to  tak'  Jessie's.  And,  of 
course,  there  was  nae  time  to  be  lost.  I 
was  desprate. 

And  so  I  done  the  last  thing  I  ever 
thought  I  would  ha'e  done.  I  asked  ma 
aunt  for  a  pound. 

"It's  for  charity,"  I  says,  and  I  dare- 
say I  wasna  exactly  noble  to  look  at.  I 
couldna  ha'e  made  a  speech  to  her — no' 
to  save  ma  neck. 

But  she  wasna  angry,  and  she  didna 
laugh. 

"A  pound's  a  heap  o'  money,  John," 
she  says.  "Could  ye  no'  manage  to  tell 
me  a  wee  bit  mair?" 

Afore  I  kent  what  I  was  daein',  I  had 
tell't  her  everything. 

And  then  she  laughed,  but  it  wasna 
an  ill  laugh;  and  then  she  nodded;  and 
then  she  says,  says  she: 

"If  ye  need  the  money,  ye'll  get  it, 
162 


A  GOOD  CAUSE 


Ye've  better  brains  nor  ever  I  thought 
ye  had,  Johnny.  But  I  think  ye  should 
stick  to  the  sellin'  and  leave  the  com- 
mandeerin'  to  me.  It  seems  mair  in  ma 
line,  and  work's  slack  the  noo." 

:*Ye   would   dae   that?"   says   I,   fair 
dumfoondered. 

"I  will!  "says  she. 

"Ye're  a  white  woman!"  says  I,  and  I 
meant  it. 

Oh!  it  was  a  great  success!  Ma  aunt 
got  that  many  kittens,  I  had  to  get  Peter 
Knox  and  another  chap  to  help  to  sell 
them.  Altogether  we  planted  nine-and- 
forty  War  Pussies.  I  daresay  some  o' 
the  customers  bought  them  for  the  sojers' 
sake,  and  didna  care  a  button  for  the 
mice.  And  here  and  there  I  managed  to 
get  5  bob  instead  o'  mearly  2/6,  and  1 
auld  gentleman,  after  laughin'  like  to  end 
hissel',  coughed  up  a  pound,  and  said  I 
was  an  impiddent  young  rascal. 
163 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


The  grand  totle  was  £7.  12.  6.,  and  P. 
Clark  made  it  up  to  £8 — (Miss  Moubray 
had  bought  a  kitten) — and  the  treat  is 
to  tak'  place  at  the  Hospital  next  week. 

But  I'm  sort  o'  vexed — I  don't  think — 
for  the  folk  that  laid  in  traps.  Forgie, 
the  ironmonger,  was  sold  oot  3  times  and 
then  couldna  get  mair  traps  to  supply 
the  demand.  Then,  last  night,  Jessie— 
I  wish  I  had  that  girl's  neck! — gaed  to 
Forgie  in  secret  and  tell't  him  the  truth 
aboot  the  plague  o'  mice,  and  he  laughed 
like  to  end  hisseP,  and  promised  to  add 
a'  the  money  he  had  got  for  traps  to  oor 
£8. 

Oh,  dear,  I'm  beginnin'  to  think  I  was 
born  lucky  after  a' ! 


164 


XVII 

His  FORTUNE 

ON  Monday  mornin'  I  slep'  in,  and 
ma     aunt     says:      "Never  heed, 
Johnny,  I  daresay  Mr.  Clark'll  ex- 
cuse ye,  for  ye've  been  a  guid  servant  to 
him."     And  she  gi'ed  me  an  extra  nice 
breakfast. 

"Either  I'm  gaun  mad,"  I  says  to 
masel',  "or  she's  turned  ower  a  new  leaf." 
When  I  was  ready  to  gang  to  the  shop, 
I  says  to  her  careless-like :  "I've  naething 
special  on  the  night,  so,  if  ye're  busy,  I 
could  turn  the  mangle  for  \  an  hour  or  so." 
"Oh,  we'll  see,  we'll  see,"  she  says. 
"There's  no'  much  work  comin'  in  the 
noo." 

"So  I've  noticed,"  says  I.     "Ye  dinna 
seem  to  be  anxious." 
165 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


I  thought  she  got  red  in  the  face,  but  I 
couldna  wait  to  see  whether  she  was 
cross  or  mearly  warm  wi'  eatin'. 

On  the  road  to  the  shop,  I  seen  Mc- 
Guffie  startin'  his  motor-lorry.  He  cries : 
"Fine  mornin',  John,"  but  he  didna  look 
me  in  the  face  the  way  he  aye  used  to  dae. 

P.  Clark  had  a  word  for  me  for  bein' 
late,  but  I  took  it  lyin'  doon. 

When  I  called  for  orders  at  Jessie's 
back-door,  the  first  thing  she  says  to  me 
was: 

"Johnny,  is  there  onything  daein'  be- 
twixt yer  aunt  and  McGuffie,  the  Car- 
rier? I  was  at  the  Kirk  last  night,  and 
somebody  said  McGuffie  was  never  off 
yer  aunt's  doorstep.  It  would  be  a 
grand  match  for  her — eh?" 

"It  wouldna  be  a  bad  one  for  him," 
says  I  quicker  nor  I  meant.     Then  seein' 
her  starin'  at  me,  I  says:    "Ma  aunt's 
no'  as  rotten  as  I  thought  she  was." 
166 


HIS  FORTUNE 


"She  treated  ye  pretty  decent  ower  the 
War  Pussies  business,"  says  Jessie. 

"And  other  things,"  says  I.  "Weel, 
since  ye're  askin',  I  think  there  is  some- 
thing on  betwixt  them,  but  I'll  thank  ye 
no'  to  yatter  aboot  it  in  the  meantime. 
I'll  let  ye  ken  if  onything  happens. 
And  noo  if  ye  please,  I'll  tak'  doon  the 
order." 

"Right  ye  are,  Johnny,"  she  says.  "I 
like  to  hear  ye  stick  up  for  yer  aunt,  and 
I  hope  it  comes  off,  for  your  sake." 

Gaun  doon  the  road,  I  met  Peter 
Knox. 

"What's  this  aboot  yer  aunt?"  says  he. 

"What  aboot  her?"  says  I. 

"Her  and  McGuffie,  the  Carrier,"  he 
says.  "Everybody's  speakin'  aboot  it." 

"I'm  no',"  says  I,  and  left  him. 

When  I  got  hame  that  night,  I  found 
she  had  got  a  tin  o'  salmon  for  ma  tea — 
and  that  costs  something  nooadays. 
167 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


"Ye're  no*  devourin'  yer  usual  the 
night,"  I  says  to  her,  after  a  while,  jist 
for  to  see  what  sort  o'  temper  she  was  in. 

She  answered  me  as  soft  as  butter. 
"Maybe  I'm  no',  John." 

That  was  a'  the  conversation  till  she 
had  started  to  wash  up.  Then  she  says, 
withoot  lookin'  at  me,  says  she: 

"Ye  might  run  doon  to  Mr.  McGuffie, 
the  Carrier.  He  wants  to  speak  to  ye." 

I  shoved  ma  hanky  in  ma  mooth,  and 
scooted. 

McGuffie  took  me  into  his  parlour,  and 
sat  strokin'  his  whiskers  for  ever  so  long. 
At  last  he  says: 

John,  yer  aunt  is  a  vera  retirin'  and 
modest  woman."  I  expected  him  to 
wink,  but  he  didna.  "John,"  says  he, 
"she  has  asked  me  to  inform  ye  o'  2 
things.  First:  Her  and  me  ha'e  decided 
to  get  married.  I  hope  ye've  nae  ob- 
jections." 

168 


HIS  FORTUNE 


"Ye're  welcome,"  says  I,  no'  kennin' 
what  else  to  say. 

"Thank  ye,"  says  he.  "The  second 
thing  concerns  ye  mair  personally.  As 
ye  are  doobtless  aware,  your  parents  left 
ye  a  little  money,  the  interest  on  which 
has  been  paid  to  yer  aunt  since  she  took 
charge  o'  ye,  fifteen  or  sixteen  year 
back.  But  your  aunt  has  never  spent  a 
penny  o'  that  interest,  which  is  £25. 
Though  she  was  whiles  ill  able  to  afford 
it,  and  though  she  whiles  found  her  work 
hard  to  carry  on,  she  has  aye  put  the 
money  in  the  bank  for  yoursel' — it's  noo 
in  the  War  Loan — over  £500,  she  tells  me. 
And  so  when  ye  come  o'  age,  ye'll  find 
yoursel'  worth  something  like  fifteen 
hundred  pound,  all  told.  I  think  that's 
a'  I've  got  to  tell  ye.  She  said  she 
hadna  the  face  to  tell  ye  herseP." 
And  he  started  strokin'  his  whiskers 
again 

169 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


I  hadna  a  word  to  say  for  masel',  and 
after  a  while  he  says: 

"Come  up  the  stair,  John,  and  see  the 
room  ye're  to  sleep  in  when  ye  come  to 
bide  here." 

When  I  see  the  room,  I  couldna  but 
think  he  was  ha'ein'  a  rise  oot  o'  me.  I 
never  seen  a  room  like  it.  Everything 
was  that  neat  and  cosy  and  braw.  It 
was  fit  for  a  king. 

"A'  we'll  ask  o'  ye,  John,"  says  he,  "is 
that  ye'll  deal  fair  wi'  us,  and  be  upright 
and  happy." 

Weel,  I  canna  mind  what  I  said  to  him, 
excep'  that  I  called  him  a  white  man, 
which  didna  seem  to  annoy  him  grately. 

Then  we  gaed  up  to  ma  aunt's,  and  her 
and  me  shook  hands,  and  then  I  said  I 
thought  I  would  tak'  a  walk  to  masel'. 

"Dinna  be  later  nor  ^  past  9,"  says  ma 
aunt.  "Ham  and  eggs  then." 

"Oh,  help!"  says  I  to  masel'.  "I'm 
170 


HIS  FORTUNE 


gaun  to  be  killed  wi'  kindness,  like  the 
fatted  calf." 

There  was  jist  the  2  people  I  wanted  to 
tell  aboot  ma  fortune.  P.  Clark  was  1, 
but  I  kent  he  was  awa'  to  see  his  sister  in 
the  country.  The  other  was  Jessie;  and 
in  a  wee  while  I  was  chappin'  at  her  back- 
door. I  canna  tell  ye  jist  why  I  had  to 
tell  Jessie,  after  a'  the  tricks  she  had 
played  on  me,  and  her  bein'  sich  a  flighty 
thing.  But  she's  no'  a  bad  hearted  girl, 
and  I've  seen  uglier. 

"Come  ben,  Johnny,"  she  says.  "The 
young  couple's  oot  roamin'  in  the  gloam- 
in'.  I  was  jist  thinkin'  o'  presentin'  a 
bit  o'  toasted  cheese  and  apple  tart  to 
masel'.  Ye'll  get  your  share." 

"Oh  8inna  speak  to  me  o'  food!"  says 
I.  "Ma  aunt  has  forgot  it's  war- 
time." 

"Come  in  quick  and  tell  me!"  she 
says. 

171 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


The  kitchen  was  near  as  tidy  as  ma 
aunt's,  and  Jessie  was  as  neat  as  a  new 
pin. 

"I  like  ye  in  yer  cap  and  apron,"  says 
I,  sittin'  doon  at  the  fireside. 

"I  sort  o'  fancy  masel'  in  them,"  says 
she.  "But  for  ony  favour,  gi'e  us  the 
news." 

So  I  tell't  her  aboot  the  engagement 
and  aboot  ma  room  in  the  cottage,  and 
aboot  ma  fortune. 

It  fair  took  her  breath  awa*. 

"Oh,  it's  you  that's  the  lucky  lad," 
she  says  after  a  while.  "  Hoo  auld  are  ye, 
Johnny?" 

"16,"  says  I.  "I  wish  I  was  5  year 
aulder." 

"In  5  years  I'll  be  4  and  20,"  she  says, 
sort  o'  sad-like.  "But  I  wouldna  marry 
for  gold." 

"I'm  no'  askin*  ye,"  says  I.  "A'  the 
the  same,  Jessie  ..."  I  was  gaun  to  say 
172 


HIS  FORTUNE 


something,  but  I  seemed  to  forget  what 
it  was. 

She  hove  a  sigh  and  says- 

"It's  a  pity  we  canna  swop  ages, 
Johnny." 

"Aw,"  says  I,  "ye  was  an  awful  cheeky 
thing  when  ye  was  ma  age — no'  that 
ye're  much  better  noo.  Still,  I  daresay 
I  wouldna  mind  if  ye  was  16  again, 
though  I  think  ye're  nicer  lookin'  noo." 

"Ye  really  think  that,  Johnny?  What's 
nicer-looker'  aboot  me?"  she  asks,  sort 
o'  squintin'  at  me. 

"Ye're  fatter,"  says  I. 

"Is  that  a'?"  she  says,  disappinted- 
like. 

"Och,  I'm  no'  gaun  to  pay  ye  ony  mair 
complements,"  I  says.  "It's  time  I  was 
gettin'  doon  the  road." 

"I'll  come  to  the  gate  wi'  ye,"  she  says. 
"I  feel  as  if  I  was  never  gaun  to  see  ye 
again." 

173 


JOHNNY  PRYDE 


"Ye'll  see  me  the  morn's  mornin',  as 
usual,"  says  I. 

"Are  ye  no'  gaun  to  chuck  the  gro- 
ceries?" she  says,  openin'  the  door. 

"What  would  I  dae  that  for?"  says  I. 

"My!  it's  terrible  dark,"  she  remarks. 

"Are  ye  feart?"  I  asks  her. 

"No*  wi'  you,"  she  says,  grippin*  ma 
arm.  "Oh,  dear,  dear!  to  think  o'  wee 
Johnny  Pryde  wi'  a  fortune  o'  his  ain!" 

"I  ha'ena  got  it  yet,"  I  says.  "As  ye 
was  sayin',  it's  a  pity  we  canna  swop 
ages." 

Then  we  both  seemed  to  dry  up;  we 
stood  at  the  gate  for  ever  so  long  like  a 
pair  o'  dummies.  I  thought  aboot  ham 
and  eggs  and  the  time  she  kissed  me. 

"Jessie,"  says  I,  though  I  hadna  meant 
to  say  it. 

"What,  Johnny?"  she  says,  whisperin'. 

"Oh,  naething."  Then  I  said  I  would 
need  to  hook  it. 

174 


HIS  FORTUNE 


"I'm  no'  keepin'  ye,  am  I,"  says  she. 

"Weel  ye're  no'  exactly  keepin'  me," 
I  says.  "Still,  I'd  as  soon  be  here  as 
shiftin'  ham  and  eggs." 

"Complements  is  flyin'  the  night," 
she  says,  wi'  a  wee  laugh.  She  took  her 
hand  frae  ma  arm.  "Weel,"  says  she, 
"I  think  ye'd  better  slope,  Johnny. 
Yer  aunt  doesna  get  engaged  every  day." 

"Jessie,"  says  I,  after  a  while. 

"Ye've  made  that  remark  afore,"  says 
she. 

"Weel,  so  long,"  I  says,  after  another 
while. 

"So  long,"  says  she. 

I  swithered,  then  I  gaed  doon  the  road. 
Kissin's  no'  in  ma  line,  but  I  had  thought 
it  would  ha'e  been  easier. 


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